


Champion's Coffer

by FeoplePeel



Series: Champion's Coffer [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Fenris/Isabela - Freeform, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Kid Fic, Merrill/Orana - Freeform, Multi, Pining, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Snarky Hawke, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unrequited Love, past fenris/hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 82,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffer: a strongbox or small chest for holding valuables. The Champion of Kirkwall keeps her most prized possessions in a locked chest by her bed. What coffer does one keep to protect flesh and blood?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damalur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/gifts).



> Takes place between Act 2 and Act 3 and, as the tags imply, is canon divergent. This is, as stated, kidfic and there will be additional warnings in chapter notes for the chapters focusing on the birth. Thanks and enjoy!
> 
> ETA: Two great pieces of the Hawke-Tethras clan can be found on Tumblr. The first (featured at the beginning of Chapter 1) by misspaper, [here](http://misspaper.tumblr.com/post/123602727085/alright-guys-ive-done-it-my-very-first-ever) and the second (featured at the end of Chapter 17) by dorian-trash, [here](http://feoplepeel.tumblr.com/post/123112675620/many-thanks-to-dorian-trash-for-this-beautiful). Go check them out :D!

__

* * *

 

_9:34 Dragon_

Hawke had learned a great deal about ducking and covering her blind spots while training alongside Carver under the army's watchful eye. She had beaten the Arishok, she wasn't slow or clumsy, and she tried to do things with style. She could be a bastard or a saint, but as long as she was stylish about it that’s what people remembered. So she noticed when she started taking more hits. An arrow to the shoulder, dodging a blade winding her to one knee and leaving scrapes. She was exhausted.

Varric was the first to remark on it. He was always at her right and he was covering her more and more it seemed. She waved him off with a scoff every time he called her out. Brushing Varric’s concerns away with a joke was child’s play after four years of practice.

The sky blue tonic rolling between her clammy palms she found harder to ignore.

When had she last bled? She thought back and chuckled to herself, nervously, when she couldn't remember. Sarge raised his head from the opposite end of the bed and whined at her. Right, probably not a laughing matter. She placed the vial on her bedside table and gathered her armour from the floor.

Her mind was buzzing as she tightened the straps of her glove. It had been two months at least. She hadn't been to the Blooming Rose since the Qunari left and, even then, they used protection.

She opened her door, and Sarge padded out in front of her. “Well, that only leaves...”

_Fenris._

The thought brought her up short and, on the heels of that, a smaller thought crept up and left her leaning on the door for support:

Maker, she had fought the Arishok _with child_.

* * *

“I warned you about that porcupine.” Varric scowled at her from his seat across the long table and Hawke shifted uncomfortably.

“I remember and I know what you’re--”

“I believe your _exact_ words were,” he coughed into a hand, raising his voice a few octaves for effect. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “I was being _diplomatic_ , you sheep’s ass. It was the nice way to get across, ‘Stay out of my bloody business’.” She chose to ignore the dwarf’s raised brow and her own hypocrisy. She _had_ , after all, shown up at the Hanged Man near midnight asking for him to do very much the opposite of staying out of her business. “Besides, _this_ ,” she motioned down the length of her body, “had already, um, transpired by then.”

“You’re sure?” He questioned evenly.

“I could not be more positive.” She responded, lips in a tight line.

Varric softened at that. “You two don’t seem as close lately.”

“It’s no skin off my back, I assure you.” Hawked lied easily.

“No, just a few pounds to add around the waist.”

Hawke let out a loud breath. “What do I _do_ , Varric?”

He looked at her long and hard for a moment before slumping down into his seat. “Talk to Isabela. After that,” he lifted his shoulders in a small shrug, tugging the sleeve of his dark blue nightshirt back up his arm to stop its downward slide.

Hawke nodded quickly and turned to leave.

“ _Not_ tonight, Hawke.” She could swear Varric was teasing her, could hear that smile in his voice, but when she turned his face was wiped clean. He motioned to his bed in the corner. “I have some shipping manifestos to go over. You get some rest. You can talk to her in the morning.”

Hawke let out a slow breath, turning back towards the bed and removing her armour piece by piece. Her fingers began to tremble by the time she reached her leg guards and she sat heavily on the edge of the bed, nearly falling on her way. Varric stood in front of her, hands on his hips in some stern imitation of her mother.

“Maker, Hawke, when did you find out about this?”

“About an hour ago?” Varric hid his shock quickly, bending to bat her hands away and remove the last pieces of her armour. “I didn't think...,” she trailed off, laying back and staring at the ceiling.

“What made you come here, huh?” He pulled up the covers to her chin and she turned to look at him.

“I was scared.” She could hear how quiet her voice became at the admission. “I can’t let myself think about this, Varric. If I do, it might...” She swallowed loudly and turned back towards the ceiling, “I can’t do this right now. After mother, after the Arishok.”

_After whatever that was with Fenris._

“Well, you came to the right place.” He said and, after a moment, she heard him drag a chair to the bed. “Did I ever tell you the _incredibly_ soothing and not at all thought-provoking story of the wandering minstrel and the three-headed nug?”

Hawke laughed loudly and settled back into the pillows.

* * *

“I know a way to get rid of it, if that’s what you want.” Isabela said, voice calm, over the rim of her mug. “And there’s always magic. Anders could help, though I don’t know how Justice feels about this sort of thing.”

Hawke snorted. “Like I give a _toss_ what a Fade spirit thinks about my life choices.”

“As I said, that part’s up to you.” Isabela’s smile was wan, but genuine. “You should decide before you tell anyone else. Take some time, if you need.” She tilted her head, adding, “not _too_ much, mind.”

“Of course.” Hawke smiled nervously. She leaned back and tapped the edge of the table until the other woman shot her a dangerous look. “Do you have any children, Isabela?”

"Andraste's granny-panties, Hawke!" Isabela laughed, pounding the table dangerously hard with a fist. "No, I had something whipped up to take care of that long ago. For a different life but one no less perilous."

"It's dangerous for me to be pregnant." Hawke nodded in understanding. "It's dangerous for a child of mine to even exist, this family gets in enough trouble as is. I don't need a target painted on a baby's back.” She thought of Carver and her father and, after a painful moment, her mother, in the ground. Of Bethany in the Circle.

“Do you want this?” Isabela was looking at her, chin on her hand.

“No.” Hawke replied immediately.

_So much for taking my time._

“Sorry, I mean,” she tried to articulate, “no, if you handed me a squalling infant right now and asked, do you want this, of course not. That’s not,” she shook her head, “that wasn’t the plan but...”

“But,” Isabela raised a brow.

Hawke thought about her mother, again, this time happier memories. Learning to properly cut an animal, to hone a blade, all for 'proper wifely duties' like cooking, of course. Of she and Carver sneaking out to watch the soldiers train. Of her father teaching Bethany from old tomes in hushed words. She imagined a faceless child curled up with Sarge by the fireplace at her estate, being passed around to her friends. It was so easy to picture Aveline's shocked and, ultimately, fond reaction. Merrill's excitement and Varric's protectiveness and that look Anders sometimes got around stray cats in Lowtown.

“I think I’d _like_ it.” She grinned widely. “Still, every time I think of Fenris and a baby it's,"

"Hilarious?" Isabela offered with a chuckle.

"Impossible." Hawke ran a hand over her brow. It was true, she had trouble picturing Fenris with a baby. _The baby_ she thought more solidly. Trying to conjure up an image now, she just felt, well, she supposed the word was _nervous_. "I just wish I could do this on my own."

The other woman's eyes hardened. "That's not fair to him. You do this, you tell him, understood?"

"Don't see how I could avoid it." She motioned down at herself.

"Fair enough." Isabela softened. "Anything else I should know?"

"Nothing Varric hasn't chewed me out for, I'm sure."

"Good," she nodded swiftly. "You’re okay on your own from here?”

Hawke stood to leave with a mock-salute. “First Fenris and then Anders, got it.”

"Hawke," Isabela's voice was nervous behind her, and when she turned, the woman wouldn't meet her eyes. "Thanks. For trusting me with this, after everything--"

"I never doubted you, Isabela," Hawke cut her off. She suddenly realised that Isabela had never come to her after her battle with the Arishok. Qunari were still leaving the city, some from the shore and, for the first month, she had just assumed the pirate had taken the Siren’s Call and set sail during the initial stage of recovery.

“Well, now you know better.” Isabela’s grin was devious. “Still, you’re one of the best friends I’ve had in,” she let out a hard laugh, “a long time. I was going to sail out, but if you decide to keep the beast I’ll stay until it’s born, at least. If you don’t, well, I’ll stick around for that too.”

Hawke leaned over to brush a kiss over her cheek, smiling. “You earned that.”

“I’ve earned bloody more than that, you bastard.” Isabela grinned into her mug and waved her out.

* * *

Standing in front of Anders’ clinic, she reasoned to herself that Darktown _was_  on the way to Hightown. She was just taking the quickest route and, really, what was the point of telling Fenris _anything_ without a full story? That was the excuse she would give for her cowardice, later, as she stepped into Anders’ clinic.

"Hawke!" Anders looked pleased, if a little confused, to see her. "Trouble in the hills?"

"No," Hawke's brows drew together. "Why does everyone always assume I'm showing up to fetch them for some dangerous quest? I could _just_ be popping in to say hello, you know?"

Anders gave her a disbelieving look but Hawke stood her ground. "Fine then," he relented after a moment more. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need to talk to you about something." She rubbed her hands together. "It's private."

The mage looked around. There weren't many people in the clinic at this time of day. Only one other worker--an elf--and a few patients too feverish to have their wits about them. Still, it never hurt to be certain in Darktown. He conversed quietly with the elf for a moment and, though she shot Hawke a wary look on her way out, she left without a fuss.

"Going to get some ingredients." Anders explained, motioning Hawke to sit on one of the high tables. She leaned against it, eyes wary. The last person she had seen on said table had been leaking pus from his ears. "We have a while. What do you need?"

"An oven," she quipped. "I've been thinking of _baking some bread_ , lately."

Anders looked around, eyebrows drawn together. "All right. I'm not sure why you came to me but--"

"I'm making _womb_ in my life for another." He blinked at her and she rolled her eyes. "Andraste's tits, Anders, I'm _pregnant_."

"Oh!" Anders eyes widened to a spectacular size, then narrowed to slits. "Oh. Those were truly _awful,_ Hawke."

Hawke shrugged. "Sorry, I'm nervous."

“I don’t really specialize in,” he turned a light shade of pink, “that.” The man’s obvious discomfort restored to Hawke an unexpected sense of normalcy. Teasing Anders, now that was familiar territory. All she had to do was cross her arms, smirk, and the man glowered back something frightful.

"Can’t you get someone to teach you?"

The mage gazed at her evenly. "Sure, I'll just learn a new field of medicine, shall I? Would you like me to pick up archery while I'm at it?"

Hawke considered it. "If you'd like. As a long-ranged specialist I'm sure it would give you a tactical advantage when--"

"I was kidding, Hawke." Anders sighed. "There are plenty of specialists, _good_ midwives, in Hightown."

“I can’t go to a midwife,” she explained. “I’m trying to keep this under the radar while I can. I know everyone seems to be on a Champion high right now, but I still have enemies."

Anders nodded solemnly. "I'll do what I can."

"That's all I ask." Hawke pushed herself away from the table. "I'll find out what Orana knows, too."

“Who’s the father?” Anders questioned as they made their way to the door of the clinic. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

She did, in truth, but it wasn't as though hiding it would prove anything. He was going to find out eventually. “Fenris.” She admitted wryly.

His shock covered the disgust she expected was lingering just below. “I didn’t know you two were--”

“We’re not,” she interrupted, swift and simple. “And he doesn’t know, yet, so I would appreciate you keeping this between the two of us for now.”

“No problem there.” They stood at the door for an awkward moment. “Well, as off-putting as the thought is, knowing will actually come in handy. Come back tomorrow and I should have some more information for you.”

“Thank you, Anders.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Truly.”

He shrugged looking something more genial. "Don't thank me yet."

“Out of curiosity,” she turned back to look at him, “who did you _suspect_ was the father?”

“I didn’t have a clue, honestly.” Anders crossed his arms, smirk wide and devilish. “Though a secret liaison with the Arishok would have made for an amazing addition to Varric’s Champion tale, don’t you agree?”

Hawke could feel her cheeks redden at the tease. _Shit_ , she thought with some vehemence, _you win this round, Anders._

“She was the only one who earned his respect. She wanted to make peace, but they made,” he lowered his voice, “ _so much more_. It writes itself, really.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very clever!” She turned away again and slammed the door, stifling the man’s laughter. “Pervert.”

The sound stayed with her through the dismal streets of Darktown and, eventually, she found herself shaking her head and laughing along.

* * *

Hawke couldn’t stand in one place, so settled for treading a back and forth path. “Fenris, I know we haven’t _properly_ spoken since,” she paused, toeing the ground, “well, since you left me naked in my own bed with what I'm sure, in your mind, was an amazing explanation. And, really, you shouldn't need to explain yourself and I shouldn’t _have_ to hear you out, but you’ve been a good friend and, let’s be honest, I’m an _amazing_ friend. You’re lucky to have me, really.” She coughed. “With that in mind, how do you feel about _babies_?”

Fenris’ imposing estate stared down at her in mock judgement.

“Ah, this is going to go _splendidly_.” She slumped.

“Hawke?” A voice spoke from behind her and her body straightened before her mind caught up.

“Fenris!”

"What are you doing here?" He asked, a little too accusatory for her tastes. He touched the hilt of his blade and looked around with narrowed eyes. "Is something amiss?"

"Why does _everyone_ think I've come to recruit them?" Hawke threw her hands up, exasperated. "I'm just here for a friendly visit, that's all!"

Fenris lowered his guard looking, if anything, more confused. "Oh. I see."

"Fenris, I know we haven't--"

"Hawke I think I know--"

They stopped speaking simultaneously and looked at their feet.

"Would you like to come in?" Fenris motioned to the door of his estate. Hawke nodded and quietly followed him inside.

* * *

"You were saying something before?" Fenris sat at his normal place, motioning to the seat next to him.

"I'm a guest." Hawke refused the seat with a small wave. "You go first."

He seemed to accept that, drawing into himself before looking up at her. "Hawke, I think I know what you want to talk about."

"I really don't think you do." Hawke laughed quietly.

"The reasons I left that night..."

 _Ah,_ Hawke thought with a twinge of annoyance, _well, he's not completely wrong. You did come about that night._

"...are irrelevant."

_What?_

Fenris shook his head. "I was foolish, but I stand by my decision. I think it's best if we pursue this no further."

"If," Hawke balled her fists, the leather of her gloves stretching in the quiet, "if you'd like. I'm more concerned about you, Fenris. Before you left, you talked about flashes of memories, of how unhappy you were. Please, you have to understand, I'm not asking for your undying love." Hawke said, voice small and tremulous. "Whatever's happening, you don't have to go through it alone. You have a whole group of rather _insane_ people ready and willing to help you face your demons."

"They're _my_ demons, Hawke." He stood, chair scrapping across the ground behind him. "My memories, my problem."

"I'm your friend, Fenris, whatever else." She smiled at him, eyebrows drawing together. "Isabela, Varric, Aveline, and the others, we're all here. You should let us help you."

"Stop fighting me on this, Hawke." Fenris turned to the window, seeming to deflate. "You may think you're trying to help, but you're being incredibly selfish."

His words brought her up short. _Well, he isn't wrong._ The thought was rather bitter and, in all her pleading, she had forgotten her purpose for coming.

“Right,” she laughed without a note of humour in her voice, “I forgot. You only need me to help kill the slavers and lock up the mages. How _incredibly selfish_ of me, helping you get rid of Hadriana. Of course, when something happens to me, to my mother,” she choked on the last word and Fenris turned back, stricken.

“I _tried_ to come to you, Hawke.” He took a step towards her. “You turned me away!”

“You did _not_ want to hear anything that I had to say to you that night, trust me.” She laughed bitterly.

“I don’t know where this is coming from,” Fenris hissed. “I understand you’ve been through a great deal, we both have. But if you would like to remain friends I suggest you walk away from this, Hawke.”

Hawke slammed a fist into the wall next to her and Fenris watched, expression unflinching.

"I'm," Hawke blinked quickly, pulling her fist back to herself, "sorry."

 _At least I know where we stand,_ Hawke thought dourly as she descended the steps to the front, _a baby won’t change that._

“That went well.” Isabela drawled from the shadows to her right.

“Shit, Isabela! You scared me.” Hawke hissed as the other woman stepped up to her, slinging an arm around her waist. “Fenris really needs a lock."

"How would I spy on him, then?" Isabela asked as they stepped out onto the streets of Hightown. The night was mild and calm, a scent of metal and flowers mingled and carried on the wind from the market.

"I couldn't tell him,” she admitted ruefully. "I was too angry. It felt like...well, I suppose no time is a good time but this felt more than a bit not good."

“I think he wanted to make you angry. You were clearly all right with using him as an emotional punching bag." Isabela spoke softly, turning her friend back towards the Amell Estate.

“I'm furious but that isn't his fault.” Hawke replied tightly. “I wanted to hurt him. I didn't think I cared for him enough for me to want to hurt him so _badly_.”

“That’s not love, that’s pride.” Isabela assured her. “You tested the boundaries of your friendship and you failed. Alcohol and bruised pride all around!"

"Maybe," Hawke groused. "He won't tell me why he left, not really. I can figure it out, for the most part, but he's talking around what happened like he has something to hide. I'm his, well, his friend I suppose and he's completely shutting me out." She shook her head. "I complain about everyone needing my help but the second one of you keeps me in the dark look at how I act. You must be right, must be a pride thing."

"I usually am." Isabela replied with a purr. "Dont beat yourself up, Hawke. Generally, when we hide things from you it means we are doing something incredibly dastardly. You are honour bound to yell at us like unruly children."

"I doubt _ravishing and walking away_ falls under the nefarious purpose category but thanks for the morale boost." She sighed lightly, stretching her bruising fingers. “Please don’t tell Varric I punched a wall."

Isabela chuckled lightly. “You make my life so interesting, Hawke.”

“That makes two of us.” Hawke laughed, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

Isabela looked at the other woman’s stomach. “Three.”

Hawke took a deep breath. “Three.”

* * *

“You can’t eat that.”

Merrill looked up at Hawke with a sort of _mossy net_ , covered in a hardened wax, draped from her mouth to her fingers. She swallowed with some difficulty. “You absolutely can eat this. I’m eating it right now.”

Hawke ran a hand over her brow. “No, you’re not supposed to eat that. It’s not made for consumption.”

“Well, I just ate it.” Merrill looked down at the rest of the moss in concern. “Does it do something bad?”

“Your life is a series of poor decisions, Daisy.” Varric shook his head in wonder.

“It’s kind of minty.” The elf sucked the rest down, munching happily. “Can I have another?”

Hawke shrugged as Varric tossed a few coins onto the merchant’s stand. Merrill scooped up her ‘ _treat_ ’ with a grateful smile. Lowtown was filling up with the usual mid-morning crowd. Some of the younger urchins looked up at Hawke with something like awe as they rushed past, but it was an otherwise unremarkable day.

"Aveline won't be married for another year, at least." Hawke bent over to examine one of the knives on display, sharp and wicked, but too heavy when she lifted it. "Why are you shopping for them now?"

"Unlike the rest of you, I won't be buying our illustrious captain's gift at the last minute." Varric held a red sash aloft and Hawke made a face at it. He shrugged, placing it back down. "It never hurts to be prepared."

 _I'm pregnant and the world keeps turning._ She thought with no little wonder. "Thank you, Varric."

He glanced up at her and, like always, seemed to understand what she meant. "Don't mention it."

"Merrill don't buy that, I can get you a decent one elsewhere. Oh, don't look at me like that, you piss-eared swindler!" She directed at the merchant. "When I can get better in Hightown you know your prices are too high for the shite you're slinging." She crossed her arms and watched as Merrill took over, haggling with the man like a pro.

"Speaking of plans," she turned back to Varric at the sound of his voice, smiling when she noticed he had purchased the sash anyway. "I'm setting some things up for the nug. Nothing that would be noticed but, like I said, it never hurts to be prepared."

"What kind of things? We don't need word getting out about this until," she considered, "never would be nice, but not exactly feasible."

"I'll keep you in the loop." Varric assured her. "Right now I'm just making sure certain people are too busy to pay any attention to you."

"That shouldn't be too hard with Kirkwall still in shambles." Hawke looked at the edge of the marketplace where a group of men and women were rebuilding, yelling orders and moving planks. A long, arduous process that wasn't likely to end soon. And this was one of the luckier patches in Kirkwall.

"And, thanks to me, you're well known for your adventuring ways." The dwarf grinned, going for charming and landing somewhere near smug. "No one's going to be asking questions if you _disappear_ for a little while."

"You've really thought about this." Hawke looked at him wonderingly.

"I know." Varric held his arms out. "Feel free to bask in my genius."

"Varric," she sighed dreamily, "my hero." He nodded in agreement and she broke off with a snort. "Think you could continue this pattern? I kind of blew up at Fenris. How is wine as an apology gift?"

"For Fenris it's ideal and, may I add, he likely deserved it. He's not exactly Mr Genial." Varric motioned Merrill back over to them. She had apparently won her battle with the merchant, as she was carrying two thick garments and looked very pleased with herself.

Hawke shrugged reaching out to balance Merrill, whose garments were now dragging mostly behind her, with a hand on her shoulder and hip. "We both said some unkind things but I may have gone a bit far."

"Don’t we all?” He paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “You’re going to try to make it work between you two?”

“Maker, I hope not." Hawke scoffed. "I mean, I hope he doesn’t _want_ to. He doesn't _seem_ to. He has some stuff to sort out, I think."

“Just be careful. Still, that’s at least one weight off my mind.” Varric admitted, ruefully. “No offense, but the farther you stay away from the elf and Blondie, the less worrying I have to do, and let me tell you, worrying about the Champion of Kirkwall is a job unto itself.”

“Varric, I’m touched.”

"What was that about Fenris?" Merrill questioned, eyes moving between the two of them. Varric chuckled quietly.

"C'mon, Daisy, we'll fill you in."

* * *

"List of practicalities," Anders held a sheaf of paper in front of her, and Hawke took it gingerly between her fingers. "There are a lot of mothers in Darktown and they have a lot of good advice to offer. This is the most medically relevant _and_ the best I could do with such short notice."

“What, no alcohol?" She paused and considered.”Yes, I suppose that makes sense. Did you write this?"

"It’s the pamphlet that’s handed out to any expectant mothers in any Kirkwall clinic." Anders rolled his eyes. "Those points at the bottom are mine and more tailored to the individual, being you."

"This has the same format as your manifesto,” She said with some interest.

Anders blushed scarlet and continued. “Speaking of that...”

“Oh, Anders, not right now,” Hawke groaned, “I’m having a baby can I please get a break from politics?”

The mage’s eye twitched, “Unfortunately not.” He motioned for her to sit and she stored the pamphlet in her belt. “I considered it yesterday but I didn't want to alarm you. After talking to more than a few of the mother's here, I'm fairly certain that your family’s lineage coupled with,” he grimaced, “Fenris means you should prepare yourself for the possibility of a mageborn child.”

“My family's magic. It's a risk, I know." Hawke shook her head ruefully. "But what does Fenris have to do with this? He definitely isn’t a mage.”

“For as much as the elf bellyaches about magic, those tattoos aren't just for decoration.” Anders responded, wryly. “What?”

“Sorry, it’s just," Hawke realised she was smiling as she spoke. "I’ve been so scared, being the Champion, having a baby, and I’ve been coming up with ways to hide it, keep it safe. I thought I was being over dramatic. You giving me a reason to be paranoid makes me feel better somehow.”

Anders considered this for a moment. “I cannot say how safe a mage child will be, not to mention the child of someone with as many enemies as you seem to attract on an hourly basis, but I can _promise_ that this child will have the most extensive security network anyone has ever wanted or needed.”

“What more could a girl ask for?”

* * *

 _A stiff drink._ Hawke thought later that night, standing in front of Fenris' estate, holding wine she was no long permitted to drink. _This girl could really, really use a hard, stiff--_

She shook her head and walked inside without preamble, Sarge trailing in behind her. It wasn't until she reached the steps that she noticed the house was too quiet. She placed her gift on the floor and put a finger to her mouth. Sarge sat with a thump as she pulled her hood up, cloaking herself in the shadows of the estate. Her footsteps were light when she reached the door. She couldn't hear any voices. Perhaps Fenris wasn't home. She stepped into the room slowly.

A gust of wind to her left and a sword at her throat. She lowered her hood with her right hand and turned to look at Fenris.

"Expecting someone else?" Hawke smirked.

"I wasn't expecting you." She pressed with her left hand and her blade dug lightly into the elf's thigh. Fenris lowered his blade.

"You really need a lock." Hawke let out a loud, deep breath and threw herself into one of the chairs at Fenris’ table. “This is so stupid,” she grumbled, “we’re acting like children. We’re adults, yes?”

Fenris nodded, slowly lowering himself into a chair across from her.

“I apologize for the way I,” Hawke folded her hands primly in front of her, “spoke to you yesterday. And the wall.” Sarge trot into the room as she spoke, bottle of wine in his mouth that he deposited, helpfully, at Fenris' feet.

Fenris smiled softly, petting the Mabari's head. "I understand times are difficult."

"You don't know the half of it. _Laborious_ , you could say." She laughed, mostly to herself, and took a deep breath. _Well, here goes nothing._ “I’m having a baby and it’s your kin. What you decide to do about that last part, well...,” she left the sentence hanging.

Fenris blinked slowly from her to the wine and, after a long moment, he spoke. “Was this a ruse? Are you still so angry that you would--”

“No!” She waved her hands wildly. "I've got a list of rules from Anders and everything! I know how this must look after yesterday. I was trying to tell you and my, well, let's just say _temper_ got the better of me. Anyway, I’m not here to conscript you into anything, I just thought you should know.” She lowered her arms, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m pregnant. I’m handling it.”

He looked, momentarily, panicked. “Are you--”

She shook her head. “I thought about it, but no, I’m going to keep it. Would it bother you? If I did, um, do that?”

“I’m not sure.” Fenris admitted quietly. “This is all a lot to take in, forgive me.”

“Take your time.” Hawke shrugged. “I’ve got a few more months of this, myself, no rush.”

Fenris nodded absently. “What would you wish of me?”

“Nothing.” Hawke breathed a sigh and made a motion towards the wine. “Drink double, as apparently I’m no longer allowed. Like I said,” she leaned back, “I’m handling it.”

Fenris pursed his lips but whatever he was thinking he kept to himself. She let a small smile slip out as she stood. “Maybe don’t drink it so fast, though.” She added, clapping him on the shoulder as she passed. “That was bloody expensive.”

Fenris shook off his shock, standing slowly. “You’re just going to leave?”

She felt the power she had in that moment, saw the opportunity to cut him with their roles reversed. Him confused and her walking away. Maybe she shouldn’t have and a better person than her probably wouldn’t, but she had proven on multiple occasions that she was not the best person. She was not even closest to the best.

“Can't imagine what else there is to say, really.” She shrugged, backing out of the door. "C'mon, Sarge. Goodnight, Fenris."

"Goodnight, Hawke."


	2. Chapter 2

_9:35 Dragon, 5 Months Pregnant_

“Fenris came to ask after you.”

“Oh, that’s kind of him.” Hawke replied stiffly.

“I don’t think you understand what I mean.” Anders gave her a long, level look. “He _came_ to my clinic. Willingly.”

“Yes, I heard you.” She folded her arms over her stomach and met his gaze. “It’s admirable that he’s taking an interest in his child.”

“He can do so  _elsewhere_. You go talk to him or I’ll tell Isabela you've been purposely avoiding him.” She finally dropped her gaze and he lowered his voice. “I’m merely suggesting you put aside your opinions, as you so often ask he and myself to do. You _did_ ask him to be in the child’s life.”

“I asked nothing.” Hawked replied evenly. “I was merely an arbiter of information. What he decides to do with that is completely up to him.”

“No need to get snippy.” He crossed his own arms. “This child is likely going to be born with magic. He’ll need to reconcile himself with that fact, at least. You're one of the few people whose judgment he trusts.”

She leaned back into the window nook overlooking her backyard. “I know we’ll have to talk about it, but I’m not sure we’ll find a balance where _that’s_ concerned.”

Anders nodded in understanding. “I once thought seeing the good that mages do first hand might change Fenris’ mind and yet...” Anders clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes tightly. After a moment, his breathing evened out and he looked at her again. “If your child has magic, and he’s caught unawares, he’s just the sort of man to do something drastic.”

 _Like turn it over to the Chantry,_ Hawke supplied silently, _for its own protection._

“Fenris may not always agree with me, but he’s never undone my decisions to help a mage.” Hawke said aloud. “Yourself, included. As you said, he trusts my judgement.”

“Perhaps,” Anders conceded. “Best case scenario, if he has time to adjust, he may start to see some of the injustice the Templars have wrought in the name of their precious cause.”

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to use this as a weapon against the Circle or if you actually care. Maybe it’s both.” Anders looked insulted but didn’t comment. “My family spent years keeping Bethany from that prison and, now that she’s there, she seems,” Hawke paused, “safe from _certain_ dangers, at least. It’s not a life I want for mine, but I can’t just _switch off_ everything I’ve seen since Lothering, either. Whatever my child is, I don’t want them practicing blood magic or fighting the Templars.” Hawke sighed. “I just want it normal, _safe_.”

“If it’s a mage, it won’t be.”

Hawke quirked a smile. “Comforting.”

He sighed deeply, tapping a finger against his elbow and, eventually, lowering his arms. “Are you experiencing any sensitivity in your bosom?”

Hawke looked down, grabbing her breasts through her tunic, lifting them to her chin, and releasing them with a wince. “Kind of tender. Bouncier, though, that’s a neat trick.”

“That’s probably a result of the armour as well.” Anders packed up his bag, ignoring Hawke’s aggrieved sigh. She hopped off the nook, brushing herself off. “Welcome to the beauty of motherhood, Hawke.” He stood, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “I've picked up a few more pointers. Seems like once you show a passing interest in midwifery, the community considers you recruited."

"I'm sure being an apostate's a boon."

"Do you need a tutorial on any of this?”

“Not another pamphlet,” she teased with a groan. When he continued to stare, she coughed. “No, I’m fine. Mother, she,” Hawke brushed off Anders’ hand lightly, “when she had Carver and Bethany. I helped. Not much, but some things are just...,” she trailed off with a shrug.

Anders fist curled into a tight ball at his side. “I’m _sorry_ , Hawke.”

She held up her hands. “I have just as many stories about insane mercenaries to counterbalance the crazy mages. Don’t worry.”

“That’s not why I was apologizing.”

“I _know_ , Anders.” Hawke said through her teeth, smiling to soften the blow. “The last time I talked about this, Varric had to get me piss drunk and, if you remember the list _you_ ordered me to follow, I can’t drink. So I’d appreciate not talking about this.”

“I understand.”

She sighed, looking down, “I wonder how many of those rules I've broken since this pip’s been in there.”

“If it has your constitution it'll be fine.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Hawke smiled, reluctantly.

“I thought you wanted comforting.”

* * *

Varric was waiting downstairs, sitting on the chaise lounge with Orana and speaking in low tones. Her friends did that more often now, whispering around her and, very pointedly, looking at her stomach. It was as though they were very good pupils in a classroom who thought, if they were quiet and paid enough attention, teacher would show them something exciting. Orana was nodding and looking, as always, very serious if a little dazed. Varric pushed himself off of the seat when they descended and met them beside the fire. Anders was speaking to him, but Varric kept his eyes on Hawke until she patted her stomach and gave a thumbs up. When he finally turned back to Anders, the mage looked aggravated but rolled his eyes at Varric’s obvious relief. He glanced between the two of them, “If anything else happens--”

“We’ll come to you,” Hawke interrupted swiftly. “It’s bad enough not being able to fight, a little walking won’t kill me.”

“In Darktown,” Varric chuckled, “it’ll _try_.”

Anders spared him a dry look, nodded at Hawke, and exited.

“Well?” Varric leaned against the mantelpiece.

“No complications,” Hawke muttered, dragging herself over to the longue and flopping onto the space he had left. “But I can’t wear my armour anymore. That’s where the fatigue and,” she blushed, gesturing to her chest, “sensitivity is coming in.”

Varric narrowed his eyes. “Then you’re _definitely_ not walking around in Darktown. Or Lowtown, for that matter.”

“I have to get out sometime, Varric.” She chuckled.

She had noticed that, in the three months since Hawke had thrown her personal life into his lap, if she didn’t speak up immediately he would treat her the way he did Merrill. As nice as it was to be spoiled by her friends she found it didn’t hurt to occasionally remind them that she had repelled an invasion.

Varric sighed. “Maker help a Kirkwall where the Champion is housebound.”

Hawke had been convincing in her normal routine to the people of Kirkwall through delegation and subterfuge. She had been right that many were busy with their own repairs to the town. They had attempted to keep Hawke at the estate near constantly. After the most singularly frustrating, cooped up month of her life, she had put her foot down, deciding to let nature run its course and when, or rather if, she started showing they would handle it. With the Captain of the Guard in the know and in her pocket, no one was likely to ask inconvenient questions.

“Fear not, I have my trusty dwarf to protect me,” she grinned rakishly. “And a host of others besides. Speaking of,” she glanced around herself.

“No word from Isabela about the bandits along the shore, but she brought Fenris just in case. I followed up with Hubert about the ‘ghosts’.” Varric nodded towards the table. “Merrill left a note clearing everything up.”

“Good girl.” Hawke lifted herself with a groan and dragged herself to the table as Varric continued.

“A letter from Sunshine, too. In code, as suggested,” he came to stand behind her, examining the letter in her hand with a squint. “I _think_ the list might be possible baby names but I don’t recommend any of them. _Kirk_ , really...?” He trailed off in a disgusted whisper.

Hawke smiled lightly. “I don’t know how you’re getting those out, but bless whatever Paragons you worship that you are.”

“Hey, hey, no need to bring them into this!” Varric held his hands up.

In the past three months, Varric had also settled into something more like his usual, jovial self. She didn’t know if it was getting back into a routine, finally being able to ignore the guild again, or a combination of the two, but whatever it was, Hawke was glad to see it. A fussy, frustrated Varric was usually a nervous, angry Varric and, while she dealt with the former from time to time, she could do without the latter at the moment.

She read through Bethany’s usual platitudes. She was fine, really, and she had a sense of purpose. Still, the undertone of panic remained, and it was hard to believe her when she ended with advice on keeping her unborn nephew or niece as far away from the Circle as possible.

Her letters felt restless. _Agitated_. She glanced down at the pile of letters, wondering if she should mention her concerns, even her conversation with Anders, to Varric. Her companion had been doing her behind-the-scenes work for years, now. There’s no way he didn’t know about this, too. Looking behind her to watch him tug on his coat, she pushed the thought aside for the moment. It had been a long day. Her worries would keep.

* * *

Hawke woke the next morning with a cold fear gripping her chest. It quickly ebbed, but the images from sleep were still there. Pictures of her father, training Bethany, Bethany trapped in a black, smoky cage. A marked child with bright red eyes and pustular skin. A nightmare crowded together with her own memories.

“Hawke, you’ve got a sick mind.” She muttered to herself, throwing the covers away from her and over the lump that was Sarge. “I said off the bed, Sarge!”

The mabari blinked up at her and huffed, folding his paws back over one another and burrowing his head further into the sheets. Hawke rolled her eyes.

“Messere?” Orana called from the other side of the door.

“Come in, Orana.” Hawke replied, shooting another warning look at Sarge. The elf entered quietly, placing a tray of breakfast foods on the writing table and walking over to pet Sarge.

“Thanks.” Hawke muttered, reaching into her wardrobe for her armour, muscles moving on automatic. A small cough behind her made her jump and she turned to see Orana pinning her with an accusatory look. “Oh, right.” Hawke slumped, hand moving to a more simple ensemble. “I’m sure a jacket won’t hurt, right?”

“It’s nippy out, today.” Orana supplied, helpfully. “Where are you going?”

“Just over to the Keep.” She tugged on her boots, pulling the strap around her knee securely. “Shouldn’t be gone too long.”

“Going to visit Aveline? Oh, she’ll be pleased.”

Hawke smiled brightly. “Now, what do we have here? Oh blackberries? What’s that face, you don’t like blackberries? Here, try one!” She held out a berry towards the elf.

“They’re so messy!” Orana laughed. “I’ll not have a bite.”

“Oh, Orana,” Hawke smirked, dipping her fingers into the bowl and coming back with purple-tipped digits, “when will you learn?”

The sound of delighted squealing echoed through the Amell Estate as Hawke chased the other woman down, nightmare completely forgotten.

* * *

“I wish you’d let me post a guard at your estate.” Were the first words Aveline said upon Hawke’s arrival at the Barracks.

“What? No hello?” Hawke mocked hurt then grinned widely. “I know that’s your way of saying you care, but I only trust you and Donnic to know about _my condition_ and you can’t be at my house all the time. There’d be no way to justify it without making me look weak.”

"You shouldn't be walking around." Aveline fretted. Hawke took a seat in front of her desk, and Sarge huffed unhappily as he left the room.

“She _is_ very rude, boy. I had a perfectly good guard with me. You said he’s your best.” The captain rolled her eyes and Hawke continued, seriously. “I fought for months, Aveline. Some heavy breathing isn't going to kill me."

“I meant you shouldn’t be walking around without your armour, you stubborn cow.” Aveline narrowed her eyes. “I should ask, are we going to see any ill effects from that? That was a nasty stomach wound you had, remember?"

Hawke placed a hand on her upper abdomen. She remembered. The Arishok had cut deep and sense memory was a funny thing. "Anders hasn't noticed anything."

Aveline seemed to accept that for the moment. “So, what can I help you with? Just a visit?”

“Father troubles.” Hawke picked at the bright red scarf wrapped around her neck. She couldn’t recall where she had come across it. It had streaks of black and was, to Hawke, one of the ugliest garments she owned. It was a garish thing, but warm and comfortable and she was fond of it. “And, you know, you’re one of the only friends I can share my feelings with, _without_ a drink.”

“Oh, hooray.”

Hawke smiled. She could hear Sarge barking from a few rooms down. ‘Training’ the recruits, no doubt. She recounted her dream to Aveline, her own feelings about the Circle and mages manifesting into one nightmare. She left out her more pointed concerns about Bethany and Anders. It was true that the Templars were no friend to the guard, for the moment, but she knew how Aveline felt about magic. Best to keep any suspicions at a low simmer, for now.

Aveline looked thoughtful after Hawke finished speaking. “Your primary concern seems to be regarding the Circle.”

“I imagine it’s any mother’s when her child has magic.” Hawke replied, a little stony.

“But you don’t _know_ the child will be born a mage.” Aveline argued, holding up a hand to forestall Hawke’s reply. “And _if_ it is, Maker help me, Anders is right.”

Hawke took in a shocked breath for effect, “Aveline, no! Don’t say it!”

“I know,” she replied with a small smile. “But you _should_ talk to Fenris about this, if only to tell him to keep his gob shut.”

“Succinctly put, my callipygous captain.” Hawke looked around. She had often wondered, in the first month, how much Varric was keeping from her and, when she finally asked, he revealed they usually split duties three ways between Aveline, Varric, and Hawke, herself. Still, she questioned how much work Varric had delegated to Aveline without Hawke's knowledge. Things had been very peaceful for a recently attacked township and she knew she owed a lot of it to the captain across from her. “How are things here?”

“Hectic,” Aveline seemed to relax back into work mode the way others sank into a bath. “In a quiet way. We have the normal trouble with the Coterie but your average citizen doesn’t want to make a fuss right now. Seems like disaster is the one thing to bring almost everyone together.”

“That’s lovely,” Hawke cooed. “All it took was a big, stinking hole in the city.”

“Things are being taken care of, _Champion._ ” Aveline shot her a sardonic look. “You can relax.”

“Easy for you to say, you don’t have another person growing inside of you.”

“Nor do I wish one.” Aveline made an exaggerated motion, seemingly to ward off whatever evil spirit Hawke’s words had invoked.

“Oh, thanks _very_ much. Why did I come to talk to you again?”

“Because you value my wisdom and friendship.” Aveline laughed.

“Right.” Hawke grinned. “That.”

Hawke bought a few apples on her walk back to the estate and, for a moment, considered how very useless she felt issuing orders. It was _relaxing_ , true, the feeling of accomplishment without any ground work on her part. Oh, but she wanted to get back out there.

According to Isabela’s letter it would be another few weeks before she and Fenris returned from the coast. Whatever they had to talk about could wait.

* * *

Hawke stared at the contestant. The _vile temptress_ stared back.

“What’s that then?” Merrill asked, watching Orana bake as Hawke engaged in an epic staring contest with a bottle of red.

“Gift from a neighbor,” Hawke replied, distracted.

“And what are you doing with it?” She asked turning from the other elf to look at the bottle curiously.

Hawke broke away with a blink. “Training.”

“Oh, you’re not to do that, Hawke.” Merrill scolded. “It’s on the list. Anders said--”

“Relax, Merrill, it’s a mental exercise.” Hawke motioned to the wine. “Anders _also_ said I have to quit drinking, cold turkey. Apparently he’s forgotten I have very generous neighbors in a very fancy neighborhood who are all still happy to show how grateful they are to the new Champion.”

“Ah.”

“I thought I’d re-gift it. Do you like wine, Merrill?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Shame.”

“You never offer me wine.” Varric complained from his place at the table, cards in hand and eyeing the mabari in front of him suspiciously.

“You _live_ in a _pub_ , Varric.”

Varric had taken to keeping her company on most evenings, occasionally dropping by to grab Merrill along the way. It made her, and she imagined them, feel a little less lonely.

They didn’t have many friends, she thought with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Merrill walked back over to Orana, nearly hip-to-hip with the other elf. Orana paused in her movements to look at Merrill, nervously. Merrill grinned in reply. Hawke recognized the panicked expression on her housemaid’s face, she had been down this path before. It started with Merrill asking too many questions and almost always ended in tears. She stood and, when she had Varric’s attention, violently thumbed towards the door. The gesture read, simply:  _Get her out of here._

And before the dwarf could enact _whatever_ brilliant plan he had worked out, they heard Sandal call out, far too happily, from the other room, “Pirate!”

* * *

“Aren’t you supposed to be bigger by now?” Isabela looked her over curiously. “You’re six months in, surely there should be something here.” She reached down and pinched a bit of Hawke’s stomach.

“Ow!” Hawke slapped her arm. “And hello, Isabela, what a surprise.” She glanced pointedly at Varric, who shrugged helplessly. “We weren’t expecting you for another week. Welcome back.”

“Yes, yes, the queen has returned.” She nearly fell onto the chaise lounge. “And she’s bloody _tired_.”

"Take your shoes off at least! And I've grown a bit." Hawke added moodily. "A few inches, I think."

“Baby!” Sandal added from the corner, not looking up from the staff Merrill had him working on.

Merrill tilted her head, examining more closely. "You don't look any different. Oh, you look disappointed. Should I have said you look lovely? You _do_ look lovely."

"Be quiet, Daisy." Varric groused. "Hawke, just be grateful that we can hide this a little longer, lay down some groundwork. Especially if the nug can shoot lightning from its hands.”

 _He’s been thinking about the magic, too._ Hawke grinned, despite herself. _Of course he has, idiot._

“Ah well,” Hawke leaned against the fireplace with a contented sigh as Sarge lay over her feet. “At least there’ll be none of that _Ferelden scum_ rubbish now.”

“Not where his mother can hear, anyway.” Varric chuckled.

“And the wee one won’t have trouble blending in with the humans.” Merrill said, reaching out to touch Hawke’s stomach. "What with being elf-blooded."

“Excuse me?” Hawke smacked her hand before it could reach her.

“Elf-blooded,” Merrill cradled her hand with a wounded look and crossed her legs on the desk. “Half-elf. It can live up here in Hightown, no problem.”

“Explain,” Hawke ordered in a calm voice that promised a stony voice would follow if she were not listened to immediately.

“Half-elves all look human.” Merrill replied, loftily. “ _All_ of them. You wouldn’t know one from a human unless they pointed it out.”

“Like Feynriel.” Hawke said and the other woman nodded.

“Makes sense.” Varric chimed in. “Half-dwarva are the same. Human to look at, if a little short.”

“There are half-dwarves?” Hawke smiled widely.

“It’s rare, I’ll admit. Less rare than elves and dwarves.” Varric laughed. “We’re not the most fertile race to begin with.”

Isabela groaned from the couch. “Are you talking about sex?”

“Calm down, Isabela,” Hawke raised a brow. The woman had a talent. “We’re talking about _breeding_.”

“Maker, you’re boring when you’re pregnant.” Isabela lifted her hand in a very rude gesture.

"If you're spending the night, go upstairs and take a bath." Hawke commanded.

Isabela dragged herself bodily from the lounge to the steps. "Years of seduction with you and, to think, all it took was showing up tired."

"I'm a woman of simple means." She called after the woman's disappearing figure.

"We'd better take off." Varric said from behind her. "Daisy, get your staff and see if Orana needs anything from Lowtown." After a quiet moment she heard. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Hawke waited until Merrill was fully inside the kitchen before turning to speak and Varric’s eyes caught hers. There was curiosity and concern and...something else. Something with an edge, a weapon, even if it wasn’t pointed at her.

“I want to say nothing. Nerves or adrenaline or just me feeling cooped up. But it’s not just me, is it? Something’s happening in Kirkwall?” Hawke brought a hand to her chin. “Something like, like boiling, like a simmer. People are too busy to notice, but I’m not busy at all and Bethany’s letters, they sound more reassuring, every single one. It means she’s scared about something.”

Hawke had never considered herself the hero of a great story, even with the way she heard Varric tell it. It was always funny to her. She was the Champion of Kirkwall and it was just a fact of her existence. It was something she _was_.

She wasn’t noble or even particularly kind. She protected Kirkwall because it was _hers_ , now. She did it because not doing it was unthinkable.

 _Mine_ , thought Hawke with the memory of ash and darkspawn. _M_ _ine and no one will take you from me again._

She went to bite her thumbnail, a thought-dead habit, and Varric grabbed her hands. His eyes were softer now, less of an edge, less of a weapon. “It’s nothing you or I have to worry about right now.”

Hawke laughed. “You’re a storyteller, not a fortuneteller.”

“Trust me on this,” He led her to a chair, sitting her down, “whatever is happening, will be fine for the next few months.”

She sighed deeply, running a hand through her hair. “Promise?”

“I’ll pay off anyone who tries to start trouble.” Varric grinned. “And the rest I’ll leave to Bianca.”

“My hero.” Hawke said, a little more sincerely, this time.

“Don’t get sentimental on me, Hawke.” He lifted a brow. “I hear babies can pick up on things in the womb.”

She swatted his arm, playfully. “It’s not even _born_ yet! Stop giving it such high expectations of itself!”

“Well, we wouldn’t want it to be born soft, eh?”

When Varric and Merrill had left and Hawke ascended the stairs, Isabela was pretending to sleep on her bed in such a convincing manner that Hawke was prepared to let it pass, so impressed was she.

When she went to the wardrobe, a quiet voice made her turn.

“Something happened on the coast...,” and stopped at that.

“Something bad?” Hawke pressed. When nothing else came, Hawke gathered her clothes and went into the side room to change.

Isabela _was_ sleeping when she returned. The woman would never let herself be caught in such a sorry state, snuffling and drooling, even if it was all for show. _Especially_ if it were for show.

“Must have been a rough month.” Hawke smiled crookedly. Sarge whined pitifully from beside her and she sighed loudly. “All right, fine, but just this once, understand?” The mabari wagged his tail happily and leapt onto the bed, curling into a ball that seemed far too small for his massive bulk.

As Hawke slept that night, Isabela curled to her back and, snoring loudly, she dreamt of a town of ash and men with knives for eyes.

* * *

It was another week before she found herself at Fenris' door. There was no sinister reason for the delay, she had simply found herself more busy than usual this past week, rather ironically dealing with the fallout from Isabela and Fenris' expedition at the coast. Money changing hands, for the most part, but it turned out that a large portion of Varric’s work had also been arranging for someone to _get rid of the bodies_. Funny, she’d never thought of that before. Shade’s turned to ash and the Qunari they had left, out of respect, but the humans could poison water or, worse, piss off a local. That’s not even mentioning the dragons.

She had made the mistake of going out with the party to see the results of her handiwork in the caves. No words could describe what a group of bloated, decaying dragons look like, so they won’t try.

She pushed thoughts of dragons and decaying humans from her mind and entered the estate. To her surprise, she met Isabela on the landing of the stairs. It wasn’t necessarily a surprise to _see_ Isabela there, but the woman’s face was tight and she nearly shouldered Hawke on the way past. That _was_ shocking. “You talk some sense into him, Hawke. Maybe he’ll listen to the _mother of his child_.”

"Well he put you in some mood!" Hawke shouted after her, her response met with a slammed door.

Whatever Hawke had planned to say disappeared under the weight of Fenris' shocked gaze.

That was the thing about _delegating_. You never had to see the people you gave orders to unless you really wanted to.

 _And the last time you saw him, you added a hole to the decorations then announced your pregnancy like a stroppy teenager._ She looked above Fenris’ shoulder to the mark her fist had left.

Maker, had it really been four months?

He followed the trail of her gaze and they both looked away, shifting awkwardly.

 _Sarcasm_ , she thought breathlessly, _you can do sarcasm._

“Big plans?” She motioned back to where Isabela had exited.

“Isabela,” he coughed out and, to the elf’s credit, recovered quickly, “was complaining about my home’s state of disrepair."

"Again?” Hawke laughed, going for casual and landing somewhere short of awkward.

“We were arguing about how safe this place would be for a child.” He said, quietly. “Or, rather, unsafe.”

Hawke had a very sudden panic about her own estate. She didn’t know the first thing about childproofing a home. There were high things to fall from, very sharp things to stick oneself with, weapons _everywhere_ , and locked rooms! Never know what kind of trouble one could get into with a locked room.

 _Varric,_  she thought, quickly quashing her flash of anxiety. _I’ll just speak to Varric._

She looked around at the dark house, not much changed since Fenris began squatting here four years ago, and that was being _kind_ about it. If she were being unkind she would say it was dustier, darker, and smelled a bit of old shoe. She commented lightly, “I hear mold can be very hazardous, but maybe elves are,” she shrugged, “different?”

Fenris drew his eyebrows together and she thought he may be amused. “ _No_ ,” he spoke slowly. “I’m fairly certain, in that regard, we are the same.”

Hawke rubbed the back of her neck. “Look, I know we’ve both been busy but I wanted to apologize if it seems like I’ve been avoiding you. Especially with the way we left things.”

This time Fenris _did_ look amused. “Hawke, we live down the street from one another and you’ve been practically house-ridden for the past four months.” Hawke raised a brow and he clarified. "If I wanted to see you, to speak with you about this, we _would_ have spoken. I assure you.”

“Ah, well,” Hawke breathed a laugh. She didn’t know if this should make her feel better or worse. “Anders told me you’d been harassing him.”

The elf’s amusement was quickly replaced by anger. “If my mere _presence_ is enough to be considered harassment--”

“As much as his is to you.” She ribbed and, when his stony continence did not wane, held her hands up in a placating gesture. “Relax, Fenris, it was a joke. He just said you’d been by. To ask about the baby.”

“To ask about you.” Fenris leaned back in his chair, looking uncomfortable. “The baby was something I did not presume to ask after.”

_Best to get it over with._

“Presume away,” she waved a hand dismissively. “On top of being the,” she looked down, “on having a vested interest in the pip’s affairs, you’re a friend. I’m not saying you have to be all in, Fenris, don’t look at me like that. What happened between us is...was,” she paused, “well, I won’t say it was nice, but it’s passed and I need my _friends_ now, do you understand?”

After a moment, Fenris smiled, lightly. “I think so, yes.”

Hawke blinked away the burning she felt in the corners of her eyes and clapped loudly, startling the man in front of her. “So, a little more light in here if you don’t mind, maybe a few plants for air. Merrill can help with that, I’m sure.” She stood, turning towards the bookshelf. “Have you been reading?”

“Not often.” Fenris admitted, accepting the change of subject and rising from his seat to join her.

"You should keep practicing." She pulled a book from his shelf and examined it. _21 Usefule Spelles and Remedies for Lice_ , the cover read and she shook her head, placing it back. "My father once told me that reading is a kind of magic. Words have a power over people, to change things. They're important. They can turn an ordinary person into a hero." _Champion._ "Or a villain." _Mage._

"Your father could use magic?" Fenris asked, voice solemn.

Hawke nodded. "He was easygoing and loyal. A good man.”

Because that was what you said about dead people and, more especially, dead fathers. They were _always_ ‘good men’. Didn’t seem to matter what they had done. She never really talked about her father because, in truth, he _had_ been a good man. Some days, that’s all she wished he were. A good man caught up in unlucky circumstances. Thinking back to her conversation with Anders, she thought she might ought to say more, just this once.

She walked out the door and down the steps, footfalls quiet but present behind her. "The reason Bethany is the way she is is because she had a teacher like my father.”

“Hawke,” Fenris touched her arm lightly and she turned, raising a brow, “I didn’t ask but Anders did mention,” he lowered his voice, “with your family’s history and my _markings_ ,” he spat the last word out with some venom, “the child may be born--”

“A mage. Like my father and Bethany.” Hawke finished swiftly. The awkward pausing was making her restless. “It’s more than likely, yes. I don’t mind talking with you about it, but that isn’t what I came to discuss today.”

“Hawke--”

“Fenris,” Hawke lowered her voice to meet his and, whatever was there must have registered as a threat because he finally pulled away from her arm.

“Another time, then.” He nodded and she smiled tightly. “I’ll walk you home.” He added when they reached the entrance.

“It’s barely a mile, I think I’ll be alright.” Hawke rolled her eyes and very pointedly ignored Isabela’s figure across the marketplace, trying to blend in. _Worrywart_ , she thought, affectionately.

Letting Isabela talk her ear off as they strolled through Hightown, happily, her only thought was, _Who needs 21 cures for lice?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another ending with Fenris and Hawke. At least time they seem to be on friendlier terms.


	3. Chapter 3

_9:35 Dragon, 7 Months Pregnant_

The Chantry was quiet in the afternoons, with low hymns echoing from the rooms at the back. Hawke had tried to avoid people by coming early in the morning or late in the evenings, but had found that most Chantry-goers in Kirkwall had the same idea.

She had only come once, after her mother had died, to have her name placed on the memorial wall. The place made her chest feel heavy as a stone and she hadn’t wanted to step foot in it, particularly since she found herself with child. She was _pretty sure_ Gland Cleric Elthina couldn’t read minds, but Sister Leliana had always been very, well, _knowing_ , especially when the Hawkes had done something wrong. It had instilled a particular paranoia in the younger Marian.

Bethany and her mother always liked the solemnity here. The Chantry in Lothering was where the women had gone to pray. Hawke had always followed because it was quiet and, occasionally, she liked the quiet. Usually she kept things so busy around her, she never had time to examine her thoughts. And this _baby_. The thought of it was constantly in the back of her mind, an awareness that crept up on her because, for the most part, she forgot it was there.

She imagined she thought about death a lot, now, on a purely subconscious level. She’d never given a lot of thought to life.

_No time like the present._

And there was no time, another thought slid to the front of her mind as she leaned against one of the garden windows. This thing’s going to pop soon and she wasn’t sure what she was thinking, telling Isabela she wanted a child, effectively swearing off Fenris’ help rearing it. She could take care of a mabari, but a _child_? Til now, she had been using her friends as guideposts and maybe she just thought, well, things always worked out, didn’t they?

 _Yes, that’s exactly what you thought, you silly girl._ A voice that sounded, strangely, like her mother, snapped back. _Don’t worry about what comes next, things just work out. Never you mind what effects it has on the wee one._

 _Okay, that last bit was Carver._ She thought and, on the heels of that, _Buggering piss, this is why I don’t go to the Chantry._

‘Carver’ had a point, though. She and her siblings were people, separate of their parents, but there was no doubting what influence Malcolm and Leandra had had on them. _Everything I do is going to effect this little pip. It’s going to copy my words and actions and I have to think about what I’m doing now. Ugh._

She heaved a great sigh. _I have to be better than I am._

She had been watching two Sisters in the shadowy corner of the garden, closest to her, their faces pressed together in a very clumsy kiss. She supposed they were trying to hide, so she tapped her fist against the window of the glass in a light knock. The women, who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, snapped around to look at her, eyes wide. She motioned across the garden, where a Mother was moving towards them in a slow walk, eyes down and away, then turned and left before their embarrassment could creep through the window and overwhelm her.

 _Teenagers,_ she rolled her eyes, _and I have to deal with that one day._

The thought made her smile.

* * *

"Well, I can say it's most probably a girl."

"Most probably?"

"Well, I would say definitely but, midwifery speaking, it's not allowed."

They were in the clinic for this check up. No more secret meetings in her home, no more deals with whatever network Varric had set up. In the end, step one in Hawke’s ‘Plan to Better Parenting’ had been to, well, parent. Noun. They had briefly discussed seclusion during the last few months and Anders even suggested passing off her child as Isabela’s, a comment met with much swearing. It was probably _that_ which had tipped the scales more than any other. A small thought, the thought, _I want people to know it’s mine_. And that was it. She wouldn’t shout it to the world, but she wouldn’t be actively hiding her pregnancy, either. She had lifted her, metaphorical, skirts and thrown herself with equal fervor in the opposite direction.

It was all so silly, the hiding, the panic. She was the Champion of Kirkwall. She had repelled a foreign invasion and fought thugs and mages because, well, because she was _there_ , mostly. She was there and it was her city. Maker help anyone who tried to attack something she _actually_ cared about.

Varric had entered into the new situation with something akin to glee. Apparently hiding a potential magic user was far easier than hiding a whole person and, to someone who had been trying to do both for months, actually seemed like a fun little challenge at this point. He pointed out, and to the whole group’s credit, that almost all of them had at least some experience harboring an apostate, so together he figured they had this well sorted.

Not that her child was a mage, she thought with very little hope.

Anders was keeping silent, likely on strict orders if the pointed looks Varric gave him were anything to work with, but the mages were still a concern There had always been whispers about Meredith, for years, but they were louder since the Viscount’s death. Impossible to ignore and, still, she did. _Varric’s right. Just these few months,_ she thought, _trouble will wait for you. It always waits._

"I should start thinking about names." She spoke over her own thoughts.

"How about Leandra?" Varric offered, his tone light.

“It’s,” Hawke swallowed, “I don’t think so. And, you know I loved mother, but her name? Not so much.”

Varric grinned and Anders spoke up. “Carver? Could work for a girl, too.”

“I like the unisex ones but, no, that one’s on reserve.” She replied simply with a smile.

“Sunshine?” Varric guessed.

Hawke hopped off the table. “If she ever wants children, I imagine she’ll be expecting a little Carver.”

“It is forbidden for members of the Circle to have children.” Anders replied stiffly. “If she does, they’ll take it and she’ll never see it again.”

 _So much for keeping quiet._ Hawke clutched her stomach and nodded grimly.

“Thanks, Blondie.” Varric rolled his eyes. “We’ll call if we need another pick me up. Come on, Hawke.”

“How are dwarves named?” Hawke asked, turning to Varric as they walked out of the clinic.

“Sometimes after Paragons, sometimes after parents,” Varric shrugged, “sometimes just after someone they met around a card table or a favorite childhood pet. Same as any other race, I guess.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Isla.” Varric’s smile was genuine this time.

“That’s pretty.” Hawke commented. “You don’t talk about your parents, much.”

“You know me, Hawke. The past’s the past. I don’t like to dwell.”

Hawke thought back to their first expedition, about Batrand and the statue. Mostly, she thought about a crossbow with a story he’d never tell.

Her eyes drifted to the weapon on his back. “No,” she said, finally, quietly, “no, you don’t seem the type.”

* * *

Ignoring the whispering was one thing, but people still came to her with problems, big and small, and the Champion could solve them all, supposedly. She spent a good portion of her seventh month in Lowtown and the alienage, breaking up minor disputes over so-and-so’s rubble pile falling into someone else’s square patch of rock garden or helping out at Lirene’s shop.

Anti-Ferelden sentiment wasn’t perfect by any means but it was better, now. It seemed most of the citizens of Kirkwall had rallied around a common enemy in the Qunari. Much like Aveline, Lirene found that there was nothing like a bit of mayhem to bring the general public together.

As Hawke handed out the last blanket they had to one in a long line of workers, some as young as thirteen, she wondered how true that really was. She stepped out through the back as Lirene herded out the rest, telling them to return next week and keep an eye on the signs.

Lirene handed out leftover cloth and foodstuffs that the merchants brought to her at the end of the week. Only recently did Hawke find out that she paid them a small sum every week for this _service_. She would have to throw some coin to the vultures, it seemed.

Still, she couldn’t blame any of them, it was hard times for the merchant’s too, with no one buying their wares. Hawke lived a fairly simple life, by Hightown standards, but even she saw a lot of excess in her life. Statues could be melted down and old armour could be passed out.

She walked by her mother’s room often, considering its future as the baby’s room, but never able to enter. Mother’s linens and her dresses, those would be worth something here. Most of their things they lost to the fire, but the few valuables left in Leandra’s room were bought for her after the expedition.

She had no need of them now.

Strengthening her resolve, she marched to the Hanged Man.

* * *

An hour later, the steel had left her spine. She and Varric arrived to a mostly empty estate, Orana and Bodahn out shopping, Sandal working quietly in the corner. Varric gave her a quick once-over and went to talk to, or rather at, the enchanter as she ascended the steps two at a time. Because she wanted this to be quick and efficient. Because she wanted it over with, if she was going to go through with it.

Because she knew when she opened that door it would hit her, all of it. There was no secret magic to a closed door but Hawke knew there was a sort of power in the barriers you set for yourself. Like a picture you kept face down or a name you never said. Hawke knew this because she had set them up often since leaving Lothering. She'd had to.

And every so often, the barrier, that magic seal you placed around all the things you never wanted to think about again, it cracked like frosted glass.

She opened the door and the air went cold so quickly it was like stepping into an icy bath.

Her mother’s room stood a living contradiction. Nothing had changed and it was painted in warm, red colors from the window beside the bed. The dress she had been mending lay across the bed, a stark green to the dark red. She ran a hand across a nearby shelf and felt a twinge of annoyance when her finger came back clean. She _knew_ Orana dusted in here, even if she didn’t touch anything else.

She sat on the side of the bed and pulled the dress into her lap. She wasn’t annoyed with the elf. It had been nearly a year, after all, and she was just doing her job. If anything, she found herself irritated at herself. Angry that this had taken her so long.

She pressed the dress to her face and inhaled sharply. It smelled like cotton. That was all.

It was an indeterminable amount of time later, when she heard the door creak open. “You okay?” Hawke peeled her face away from the dress. Her eyes _stung_. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Shut up.” She used the sleeve of the dress to dab at her eyes and proceeded to sniff in great, desperate gulps to offset any ladylike manner the action proclaimed. To his credit Varric didn’t say a word, closing the door quietly behind him and walking over to hand her a proper handkerchief. She took it with a lifted brow.

“Gentleman, remember?”

Hawke blew her nose loudly, finding particular delight in the resigned look on her friend’s face when she handed it back. “I can’t smell her anymore. It feels silly but I thought,” she looked down at the dress, “I don’t know what I thought.”

“I can’t promise it gets better,” Varric said, placing a hand over hers, “but it gets easier. I don’t know what that means, now.”

Hawke squeezed his hand and pulled away. With a little bounce, she stood and hung the dress, the chest still stained dark from her tears. “It means we can strip the bed and bring these to Lirene, tomorrow. After a washing.”

As she slowly worked her way around the bed, she heard Varric move from the vanity to the closet and a soft, pulsing sound. She looked up through her lashes to watch Varric spray a bottle of perfume down the dress.

Her mother’s.

“Gentleman, indeed.” She looked back down, smiling, and tried not to cry.

* * *

Anders pulled a hand away from Hawke’s forehead. “You’re a little warm, but everything else checks out. Fresh air’s good, but try not to overextend yourself.” He regarded her, wearily. “Again, I _really_ can’t condone late nights at the Hanged Man. The smell alone,” he cut himself off with a disgusted shudder.

Hawke patted the man’s shoulder and laughed, cheerily. “Just think of it as building up the baby’s tolerance for Kirkwall life.”

“How are things, otherwise?” Anders looked around in what, Hawke suspected, he thought was a _surreptitious_ way, but came across as more _openly suspicious_.

“If you mean not being able to do anything except bloody exist,” Hawke replied, flatly, “I manage to keep busy. I’m guessing you don’t mean that.”

“The midwives never worry about things like stress, but Varric _may_ have had words with me.” Anders sounded truly chastened and Hawke delighted at having her suspicions confirmed. She was curious if the words involved something to do with ‘your clinic’ and ‘my connections’. For someone who hated Darktown, the dwarf had a lot of pull.

“That’s very, um, _kind_ ,” Hawke took pity on the man, “but I don’t think he meant not to talk about mages, _at all_ , particularly if it concerns one that might come out of my body.”

“You didn’t hear him.” Anders muttered. “But I guess you’re right. If that’s the case, I’d do some light reading on lyrium and its side effects. There’s a few books on training I can recommend, as well.”

“Not something I’m focused on right now, thanks.” She laughed. “I’ve got a few thoughts.” _None I’m sharing and none you’d agree with._ "I'll protect her." She smiled, ruefully. "Well, I say that but I'm not sure how much is bravado and bluster."

Anders tapped his foot, looking conflicted before turning and rooting around in one of his boxes. After a while, he came up with quill and parchment.

“Another list?” Hawke teased, but the man remained silent.

“I really _shouldn’t_ be doing this.” Anders’ held out the paper and Hawke looked it over before taking it. A list of names. “ _Compromised_ Templars. They’ll help you and the baby, if it comes to it. Bethany too, but I’d be careful with her.”

“There are,” Hawke blinked, a bit shocked, but mostly confused, “more than I would have thought.”

“Some are decent,” Anders explained, sitting in front of her, “the ones at the top. They’ve helped smuggle out mages here and in other Circles. The others are less trustworthy, but they’ve been bribed with Lyrium or coin. There are more. Templars who’ve been caught and lost the title. They still help from time to time, but I’m afraid I can’t risk telling you who they are.”

“This is fine.” Hawke swallowed. “This is more than fine, thank you. I notice Cullen isn’t on here. He’s helped us before.”

“He’s helped _you_ before.” Anders specified, voice hard. “ _After_ he took Bethany. What makes you think he would hesitate at your child?”

She considered that. Hawke didn’t like Cullen, but he was generally honest and had rather _pesky_ second thoughts for a Templar. Bethany had written that he had stopped to buy her a pastry on the way to the Gallows. It wasn’t a kindness, but a practicality. Bethany just hadn’t had lunch yet and he stopped at a stall to feed her. Anders would probably have called it a ‘last meal’ and Hawke couldn’t, herself, say _why_ it meant something.

Growing up with apostates in the family gave you a healthy respect for magic, but getting attacked by mages nearly weekly, in her adult life, had given her a healthy fear, as well. She had never fully disagreed with the _idea_ of the Circle, she just never wanted her sister or her father in one. She may have felt differently, were she born a mage, but she wasn’t and there was the trouble.

Maybe she wanted to go a little easy on Cullen because, in little ways, she agreed with him. Still, in bigger, more selfish ways, she recognized what Anders was saying. _This_ was the same man who would come to take her child, and it didn’t really _matter_ that he might feel a little bad doing it. He still _did it_ and that was the point. Wasn’t it? Isn’t that was Anders had been saying, all along?

 _But you don’t trust him, either._ That little voice, her own second thoughts whispered to her.

“I’m glad you’re being thoughtful about this.” Hawke looked up from the list, eyes steely, and she saw it. A flash of white that settled almost too quick to see. _He’s too angry. He’s probably known about these Templars for ages. He doesn’t trust you. What else isn’t he telling you?_

“Beyond his own behavior,” Anders continued as Hawke folded the paper, “he’s Meredith’s second-in-command.”

“All right, you’ve convinced me.” She laughed, weakly, holding her hands up in mock-surrender. “I was just curious, honest. He’s one of the only Templars I know.”

“Knowing less of them is a _good_ thing, Hawke.”

“I think Aveline would agree with you right now.” Hawke snorted.

“Meredith has a lot more power than she deserves.” Anders stood. “That power trickles down. Might be something worth looking into.”

“No one _deserves_ power.” Hawke felt her lip curl.

“Exactly.”

* * *

Her stomach hurt.

Drinking, or the lack of drinking, had been hard to get her head around. Once she had, she could manage nights at the Hanged Man relatively well and, when she couldn't, a friend would take her aside and help her out. She would never say she had a drinking problem (aloud, in any case) but she couldn't fight. And she couldn't travel. And she couldn't _drink_.

And now her stomach hurt.

And her throat itched.

"Nug troubles?"

The voices of the patrons in the Hanged Man buzzed around Hawke like familiar insects. Varric's voice, clearer beside her was startling. Unable or unwilling to choose a name, the group had taken to calling the baby names of their choosing. Pip or nug or beast or, on one particularly bad day, 'wretched gift from the Divine'. Anything but baby, really.

"Pardon?"

“It’s your go,” Fenris prompted from across the table.

“Surely your hand isn’t _that_ bad?” Anders tacked on hopefully.

“I’m out.” The man’s smile widened when Hawke placed her hand down. She waved a hand dismissively at Varric, who was still looking at her. “The pip,” she wiggled her fingers dramtically, “it’s _alive_.”

“It’s moving?” Aveline and Varric stared at her in open wonder. Fenris looked a little green. Anders rolled his eyes at all of them and placed his bet. “It must be so _tiny_.”

Hawke folded her arms and glared. “Anders says she’s a perfect size.”

“ _Anders_ isn’t a midwife.” Fenris looked at the mage, suspicion writ clear on his face.

“I’m in training.” The other man parried easily and smiled a smile with no humour in it at all.

Hawke dropped her arms and stood. No way was she getting caught in the middle of these two again. Especially not after discovering the more quiet, likeable side of Anders and befriending Fenris anew.

“I’m going to crash in Isabela’s until this, um, passes.” She said, coughing a little into her hand. She took a water from a passing tray, sniffing before drinking it down.

“Best use my room.” Varric suggested, warningly, eyes on his cards. “Rivaini’s got company.”

“When _doesn’t_ she?” Aveline shot a grin at Fenris. The elf was still fuming, more so now, it seemed. The captain shrugged. “Feel better, Hawke.”

Hawke waved at the group behind her and walked up the stairs.

* * *

Leaning against the headboard made her dizzy and laying down only made it worse. She sat herself at Varric’s desk and placed a pillow behind her lower back with an agitated sigh.

The baby had moved before, though it usually stayed pretty inactive in the evenings, and it had never made her _nauseous_. Still, it was on that _blasted_ ‘What to Expect’ list. She had heard the women in Lothering talk about the _magic_ of a baby’s movement. They must have collectively decided against telling children all the bad bits. Otherwise no one would ever do this, she reckoned.

She wasn’t surprised to see a backlog of paperwork on the desk in front of her. Hawke had always been more of the ‘If I can’t punch it I don’t want to deal with it’ breed, but she seemed to be good at menial tasks when she _tried_ them. It seemed, to her, like Varric was bred for the Merchant’s Guild and avoided his work out of spite. She could respect that.

Rifling through the papers, she eventually found something she recognized; a requisition for a coal cart at The Bone Pit. Dipping the quill by her right hand into the ink pot, dramatically, and gazing from a finished document to the one before her, she forged Varric’s signature with a wild flourish. She stared at it with a growing feeling of triumph rising up and up...

And then she vomited all over the desk.

* * *

“You’re sick.” Anders declared with only a little less triumph than she had felt a few minutes earlier. Her mad rush to the window and subsequent yelling from the poor strangers she’d emptied the rest of her stomach onto had alerted her friends to her condition and most were still hovering around the door like worried Chantry Sisters.

“I’m not sick,” she stopped to swallow some foul mix Anders was pushing at her, “I’m _never_ sick.”

“Your immune system is lower, right now.”

She groaned long and loud, throwing an arm over her eyes. When she removed it she found that the others, save Varric, had left.

“Did I fall asleep?” She asked and her mouth felt like dry wool. “Guess so.”

"Anders says you have to rest and by rest he means _sleep_ , this time." Varric lifted himself from his chair by the fire to chastise her a little closer to the bed.

She gazed guiltily at his desk. “I’m sorry about, well, all of that.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He smiled, effectively spoiling his scold.

“I didn’t ruin any important documents?”

“Sometimes I bring them downstairs to get someone else to throw up on them.”

“Really?”

“There are some wonderful benefits to doing paperwork in a pub,” Varric nodded, sagely, then more serious, “though I would prefer you hungover to actually sick.”

“If the Maker _does_ exist, he wouldn’t make me pregnant _and_ sick for the first time in,” she thought, “I honestly can’t remember the last time I was ill.”

“Wow, that long?” Varric sounded impressed.

“I was seventeen or eighteen.” She explained. “There was a sort of, hrm, cough thing. A deep chest cold a lot of the kids caught. Carver and Bethany got it, then me. The kids got over it pretty fast, but any who was a little older had trouble shaking it for some reason. I slept through most of it.”

“So you _literally_ don’t remember.” Varric sounded _less_ impressed.

She shrugged. “I remember drinking a lot of hot soup with salt in it. Father couldn’t mess up soup. And Bethany and Carver were learning a lot of their big words, then. Carver didn’t sneak out, once. He said it wouldn’t be the same if I wasn’t there to get caught with him. They stayed home and read to me.” She rubbed her stomach. “I hope she can tell her friends stories like this when she grows up. Really nice memories, you know?”

“Ah, Hawke, don’t get sentimental on me.”

“I’m pregnant. I'm allowed a bit of sentiment.” She pouted. "So how about it, another story? Practice for the pipsqueak?"

“Practice? Who needs practice?” Varric scoffed, wrestling the blanket out from underneath her and wrapping her in a messy spiral. “I envy the stories this one’s gonna hear. Fights against ogres and dragons, pirate stories from your aunt Rivaini.”

Hawke covered her stomach, looking scandalized. “Maybe we should wait a few years on those.”

He laughed, loudly. “I’ll tell her the abridged version until she’s of age.”

“She'll just hear about it from her friends.” Hawke shrugged, smiling.

“Rivaini's not that noteworthy.” Varric snorted, settling on the bed beside the blanket-bundle that was Hawke. “How about a preview for the next chapter of _Swords and Shields_?”

“Boring.” Hawke intoned.

“How _dare_ you!”

“A mystery,” Hawke demanded, closing her eyes and flipping over, “with a mabari that can _talk_.”

“All right, let’s get this story started before the delirium fully takes over.” Varric sounded resigned behind the black of her lids. “Sarge hated locks, nearly as much as he hated door knobs and trade currency. They were designed with _his human_ in mind, you see,”

Somewhere between a mabari earning his war paint and meeting the love of his life, Hawke fell asleep.

* * *

Not taking it easy prior to her sickness left her housebound during Hawke’s recovery. She sent Isabela and Fenris to help a few of the Templars on Anders’ new and, in her opinion, more helpful list. She waged an internal war about sending Fenris at all, not yet trusting the elf on any mission involving mages without her. Varric, who at least approved of establishing connections in the Templars, was the one who pointed out it would just show her distrust and suggested sending Isabela to keep a handle on him. After the scene at his mansion, she wasn’t sure how wise that was, but Isabela was generally as good as Varric at diffusing _difficult_ situations.

She had gotten through some of _An Alchemical Primer of Metallurgy_ before falling asleep on top of it, and woke up to hear people chatting happily, in the foyer below. She had just enough time to wipe the drool from under her chin before Varric turned the corner of the stairs.

The dwarf took the rare opportunity to stare her down with a smirk. “You missed a spot.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, turning back to her book and marking her place. “Did you know there’s a sort of, um, some sort of contraption that can push things through walls, using lyrium?” The more she had read about it, the more similarities she drew to Fenris’ tattoos, and she had focused on the section with particular scrutiny. “And the Orlesians have glowstones. I wonder if we could get use those to speed up the city’s recovery? Maybe mount a defense for something in the future?” Varric seemed to consider this with an almost curious expression.

“Lyirum ain’t cheap, you know?”

“Maybe if the Chantry and the Guild didn’t have such a stranglehold on it.” Hawke shot back.

Varric motioned to the balcony and she followed him out.“Since when do you care about the Lyrium trade?”

Hawke shrugged. “Things have been quiet. Besides, being the _defender of Kirkwall_ , now, I figure I should start thinking about these things.” She held up a hand to forestall whatever he was going to say, “ _Just_ thinking, Varric. It’s not like I’m on the streets, petitioning the Chantry or writing letters to your family. It’s just a thought experiment.”

“Fair enough.” Varric acquiesced. “That much lyrium, the amount we’d need to outfit Kirkwall, it wouldn’t _just_ be expensive, it’d be dangerous. And the shit you’re talking about? I’ve never seen anything like that. Know someone who could probably make it, but I wouldn’t risk it.”

“I don’t need things made, just information.” Hawke assured him. “Even if it doesn’t help me understand my child, it’s useful.”

“Yeah,” Varric scratched the back of his head, “well, information I can get you. I’ve been looking into the red stuff, anyway. Anything new comes up, I’ll pass it along.”

“Thanks, Varric.” She smiled. Below them, two figures walked closely together towards Fenris’ mansion. “Oh, they’re already back.” Hawke resisted calling out to them, having learned a few things about yelling in Hightown at night.

“That was quick.”

“Guess you were right!” Hawke said, sounding far too relieved. “How much do I owe you?”

“You _could_ give me my sash back.” He stared at her neck, sounding mildly irritated. “I paid three gold for that.”

Hawke clutched her scarf tightly. Her first thought was, _Explains why I can’t remember buying it._ Followed closely by, _Really? Three gold for this shite?_

“I like it, it keeps me warm.” Hawke pouted. “And I’m _sick_.”

“Fine, keep it.” He scoffed, leaning out over the edge of the balcony. “But you owe me three gold in drink.”

She joined him with a little exhale of breath, both watching Fenris invite Isabela inside. “I wish we could get Bethany out.”

“Me too,” Varric admitted, defeated. “Maybe after a little while, when your name isn’t on everyone’s lips. It won’t draw so much attention to yourself.”

Hawke nodded in understanding.

“They’ve been in there a while.” She commented after what was, indeed, a while.

“I hadn’t noticed.” Varric replied flatly.

“You don’t think,” Hawke paused, “I mean, it _would_ make sense but,” she pictured Isabela, at the top of Fenris’ stairs, chin stuck out, defiant, but guilty underneath it. _Something happened,_ she’d said. Varric whistled low and long. Hawke laughed a little breathlessly, feeling…

Relieved.

“I am _so bloody thick_.”

Varric, wisely, said nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

_9:35 Dragon, 7 Months Pregnant_

In retrospect, ambushing Isabela as she had left Fenris’ mansion to invite her for a walk along the docks had probably _not_ been the wisest course of action. The pirate walked beside Hawke, tighter than a bowstring.

Hawke was coming up with what she was sure would be the perfect joke to undo the tense atmosphere when Isabela stopped in front of her, cutting her off. “Just say whatever you’re going to say and be done with it, I have places to be.”

“Since when does the great Isabela care what anyone thinks about who she sleeps with?” Hawke played along, all thoughts of joking chased from her head.

“I don’t care about that.” She crossed her arms, refusing to be placated. “I care if I’ve,”

“If you hurt my feelings?” Hawke prompted and the other woman flinched. “Fenris was practically a virgin whose first time resulted in an unplanned pregnancy. By the void, I’m amazed he’ll do anything with you at all.”

“And will _he_ be getting this lovely little chat?” Isabela narrowed her eyes and, though Hawke felt intensely uncomfortable at the scrutiny, she couldn’t help but smile. This was closer to the Isabela she was familiar with.

“I don’t think we’re quite there yet.” She decided to respond honestly.

“It doesn’t _mean_ anything, you know.” Isabela rushed to add. “It’s just me. It’s just how I am, it’s how I always am.”

“That’s not true.” Hawke matched her, beat for beat. “If it were, you wouldn’t be working so hard to keep it from me.”

The woman ran a hand across her brow. “I don’t know what I’m, what we’re, doing all right? I just know I don’t want to hurt you.”

Hawke fought down a smile. “Thank you, Isabela. I appreciate that. And now that you’ve been honest with me, let me reassure you that Fenris and I are over.” Hawke said, hoping she conveyed the sense of finality she felt. “We were over before I came to you about the baby and we were _definitely_ over the night I punched his wall. Did you think that was foreplay?”

Isabela raised an eyebrow, “Well,”

“I’m serious, Isabela.” Hawke laughed a little. “I don’t know how I’m _supposed_ to feel about you and him. Varric and I have gotten all of you involved in some kind of crazy through the years. Fenris just got in a little, eh, deep.” She snorted and the other woman shook her head. “You’re good for him, I think. Before he can even think of helping with a kid, let alone a _mage_ , he needs to work on himself and I can’t be on that timetable anymore. This baby is coming _now_.”

Isabela’s eyes widened marginally.

“Oh Maker, no, not _right now_ ,” Hawke rushed to reassure her, “just, you know, the metaphorical now.”

They began to walk towards the ships again in silence and Isabela seemed to relax, by degrees. It may have been the ships, but Hawke liked to believe she had been a _little_ reassuring.

“Something happened on the Storm Coast.” Isabela explained, running her hand along the wood of a ship. “We didn’t bring any alcohol and I think we were both feeling a little sorry for ourselves.” Isabela huffed a laugh. “I don’t know if you know this, but Fenris let me use his mansion, sometimes. Nights at the Blooming Rose, when I got too pissed and I didn’t feel like bothering you. It’s not something you write poems about, but it made an impression somewhere along the line. I don’t think he’s very good at taking care of himself, I mean, just look at his house,” she scoffed, “but he always took care of me.”

“It’s good you were there for each other.” Hawke wrapped her scarf around her neck a little tighter, covering her mouth. “It’s nice to have someone to take care of you.”

_Shit._

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

“Reminding you of anyone, dear?” Isabela’s smirk was _far_ too knowing.

“Too much.” Hawke pulled the scarf back down, growling a little on the last word. “ _Maker_ , I want to punch something.”

Isabela reached behind her to grab a melon, splitting it in half against a nearby post. Without a thought, Hawke slammed her fist into the nearest green.“One-half punching fruit, one-half breakfast, at your service.”

“You’re a _good_ friend.” Hawke chuckled, licking some of the juice from her fingers.

Hawke could see Isabela blushing a deep red as she turned away. “I know you can’t, but I definitely could use a stiff drink after all this. Company would be nice, unless you have someplace to be?”

“I should be at home.” Hawke admitted, ruefully. “But I owe someone three gold in drink.”

* * *

 

Hawke left Isabela at the bar and wandered upstairs to Varric’s room with a drink. The dwarf was sitting at his now paperwork-free desk, thanks to Hawke, and scratching out a letter in low lighting. A part of her brain noted his hair was down, and a darker gold when wet. Another, smaller, part of her brain noted that she had been having thoughts like this more often lately. She ignored both parts and placed the drink down in front of him.

“You’re going to kill your eyes.” Hawke leaned over the desk to kiss his cheek. Friendly, she thought, he can read that how he wants.

“And what are _you_ sucking up for?” Varric quirked a grin, rubbing the spot her lips had touched.

“The pint is the first of many I owe you,” she leaned back, crossing her arms, “the other is a small token of my thanks for everything you’ve done over the past few months.”

“Free booze and swooning women. Remind me to be in your good graces more often.”

“It wasn’t a _swoon_ , it was a kiss.” Hawke pointed out and Varric peeked at her from over the rim of his glasses.

 _Oh, but that’s a neat trick._ Something from her groin connected to the parts of her brain she had been desperately trying to ignore at that look. _Shut up, you’ve always known he’s handsome, you tell him enough. His ego’s probably the size of Ferelden, thanks to you and Isabela._

It was never a question, to Hawke, of _did she_ or _would she_ , with Varric. The answers would always be _absolutely_ and _better than he’s ever had it_. No, the real questions were hard questions. Complicated questions. _Does he? Would he?_ Maybe he’d never even thought of her that way. Maybe he just needed a little push.

And thinking of pushing made her think of her baby, and thinking of her baby made her think of what _incredibly poor timing_ this was. Also sharp cheese, but she ignored that, because the baby made her think of cheese a lot.

"You and Isabela talk things out?" Varric went back to scratching at his parchment and Hawke moved to the chair by the bed.

"Nothing to talk about," she called over shoulder, then snorted, "but yes." Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a disused book, disappearing into _A Compendium of Lectures by the First Enchanter_ for a little while.

When she awoke, Varric was draping a blanket over her. And how many times, she thought, has this exact same scene played out in almost this exact way?

“Can I try something?” She could tell the question startled him by the slight hitch in his shoulders, but Varric continued adjusting the blanket until he seemed satisfied.

“You?” He finally looked up. “That depends, how dangerous are we talking?”

“Nothing life threatening.” Hawke crossed her heart. “Invasion of personal space?”

Varric processed this, then smirked. “The chest hair, again? I swear, you and Rivaini. I _told_ you, _both_ of you,"

“I don’t want to touch your chest hair.” She lied. “I want to kiss you.”

“You just did. About a half-hour ago. Those blows to the head finally catching up?” His eyebrows drew together and up in quick succession. “Oh. _Oh._ ”

"I meant what I said, about you being there these last few months."

"That's not," Varric shook his head slightly and she looked down, "I wasn't really trying,"

"I know. You were just being your normal," she rubbed her hands together, "Being yourself. And I've been still and doing a lot of thinking. Then I just thought, hey, what about us? Well, no, about me. About how I might feel about us.”

 _You can’t blame this on being drunk._ She winced.

When she chanced a look up, Varric closed his mouth quickly. “I am,” he coughed, “so flattered.”

“Oh, Maker, don’t say that!” Hawke buried her face in her hands. She could feel her heart, rabbit-fast under her thumbs.

She heard Varric laugh, a little nervously. “What do you want me to say?”

“Say something else, something better.”

A pause and then, “You're my best friend?”

“Don't say _that_.” Hawke’s head shot up, and she laughed hysterically.

He stopped and regarded her before continuing, carefully, "I’m in love with someone else."

Underneath the blanket, Hawke felt cold all over and all at once. It shouldn't go like this, she thought. This was her life, her city, her _story_. Varric _loved_ her, he _had_ to.

 _And he does._ A voice whispered like soft thread, _Love you. He shows it, every day._

Not like I want.

_No, not like that._

She _said_ none of this out loud, and with each second, she saw Varric grow more uncomfortable, his face more concerned, working out how to respond to whatever she would say.

And what she said was, "Okay."

Varric blinked. "Okay?"

"I understand. It was just a thought, honestly." She pulled the blanket up to her chin and he checked her expression. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you serious with anyone. I never thought Bianca was a _joke_. A smokescreen, maybe, but never a joke.”

Varric tapped his finger against a leg, nervously, face solemn.

“It’s none of my business but, is she,” Hawke trailed off.

“No, no,” he shook his head, “just married,” and seemed surprised that he said that much, if the way he shrunk back was any indication.

“Same thing, right?” Hawke attempted to joke but, if anything, Varric drew more into himself. Hawke smiled widely. “Varric, you’re right, you are my best friend and you’ve been there for me during an incredibly emotional time. Even if I didn’t have _inconvenient_ feelings for you, I'd still appreciate everything you’ve done for me and the pip. You know that, right?” He nodded. “And you trust me?”

“Of course.” She was pleased to hear Varric respond almost before she had finished.

“So can you trust me when I say it’s okay?”

Varric exhaled on a long breath. “Yes, I’m,”

“And _don’t_ say you’re sorry.” She held up a finger in warning. Varric grinned and reached up to scratch his neck.

“No apologies and it’s okay. Deal.”

* * *

 

Hawke stood over her that coffer that night, words she hadn’t thought of in a long time, rising up in her mind.

"I don't think this is what that dragon meant." Sarge pawed at her, jarring her from her thoughts. She bent down to hug the mabari. He licked a long stripe from the bottom of her chin to her temple and she let out a short gasp, pulling away. “Sarge! I had no idea you felt this way! Truly, my love has been staring me in the face all along.” She pulled Sarge closer, giggling until she was out of breath as he drooled on her shoulder.

* * *

 

“You look much improved.” Aveline looked around Hawke’s room with open curiosity. Like many of Hawke’s friends, she spent more time around the person than the home. The last few months had been a novelty for the group.

“Do I?” Hawke fell backwards onto her bed with a loud sigh. “I feel lethargic.”

“That’s a big word.” Aveline huffed.

“So is _patronizing_.” Hawke lifted a brow, motioning from the bed for Aveline to sit by the window. She did, laying her shield on the floor beside her.

“I’m more surprised you’ve not collapsed sooner. You don’t eat as well as you should _and_ I know you don’t have a regular sleep schedule.”

“True.”

“Is something else wrong? You’re being very,” the other woman’s forehead wrinkled, “agreeable.”

Hawke sat up, folding her hands in her lap, considering. She had called Aveline over for her wedding gift not to unload her problems. It was a long tunic of red and gold that the captain had wondered at in one of her mother’s books. She would have to have it commissioned, now, but she had the coin and lacked only the measurements. If she were honest with herself, she could have done that any day and, were she feeling truly stealthy, taken her measurements from another garment in her quarters. The person she _really_ wanted to talk to about what happened with Varric, about her whole life really, was locked up in the Gallows. She knew what Bethany would say, in any case. She’d tell her to _talk_ about it.

 _You can’t avoid him like you avoided Fenris,_ her thoughts warned, _He’ll notice that. Don’t make it awkward. Just recover at home then back to business._

“You know how I told you to just go for it with Donnic?”

“Yes?” Aveline responded, eyebrow raised.

“Well I quite _stupidly_ followed my own advice and failed spectacularly.” She explained.

Aveline scoffed. “Define failed spectacularly.”

“Sorry, but I’m already in love with someone else.”

“Ah, that would be an issue.”

“Tell me about it.” Hawke smiled lightly. “Interesting story; when I was sixteen, I turned down two suitors and one actual marriage proposal for _Harvett Worthington_. Daughter of a general, though she couldn’t lift anything more than a bucket of water. Descended from Lord what’s-his-name from some house of whos-he-whassit. I was _convinced_ we were going to run away. To Orlais, I think.”

“That's very quaint, coming from you.”

“My father was a charming man, I owe it all to he. My mother she was beautiful, my looks I got from she.” Hawke grinned, unapologetic. “Anyway, you can probably guess I didn’t get the happy ending, whatever I thought it was. Harvett dumped me like a sack of flour because, in her words, a girl like that just wasn't fit for slumming it with me." Hawke shrugged. "My father used to say you always carry a piece of the people you love with you. It must be true, I can't believe I'm thinking about _Wimpy Worthington_ after all these years. All because I got turned down for someone else’s… _worthier wooer_." She grinned to herself.

“Worthier? Fenris is a _blighted fool_ for choosing that scoundrel over you, that's my word on the matter.” Hawke blinked, feeling very unbalanced for a moment and Aveline’s eyes widened. “I’m, oh Maker, had you not heard?”

Hawke laughed, tempted to jibe about most of Hightown _hearing Isabela_. “Oh! No, it's not Fenris! Are you kidding? Those two deserve each other.”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “You say that with far more kindness than I, Hawke. Still, who," Aveline said with a puzzled frown, "oh, Varric."

“Oh, Varric,” she mocked, “don’t say it so knowingly.” She was _certain_ her face was red.

“The way you two hang on each other I was more surprised it wasn't his child you carried.”

Hawke snorted a little, from shock more than anything. She thought of her friends, this way, from time to time. She wasn’t sure why it surprised her that her friends imagined the same. Still, she refused to admit that the once luckless-in-love _Aveline_ could have noticed something she had not. “I hang from everyone that way.”

“Others are drawn to _you_.” Aveline chided, gently. “Even before you were made Champion, I think people knew there was something special about you. Anyone with sense can pick up on it. I did.”

Hawke ground her teeth together. Surely Aveline had not forgotten her year in servitude, invisible and forgotten? Had it not been her own constitution, Bethany’s everlasting patience, and the loyalty of those like Aveline and Varric, they may have never made it to Kirkwall, let alone the Deep Roads. No, she was not a _beacon_ in the dark city of Kirkwall, or a Ferelden good luck charm. It was work, _hard_ work that got her family to where they were.

And here she was again leaning on Aveline’s loyalty, and thinking, not for the first, probably not for the hundredth time, of what a good family she had made here.

“So, Varric’s in love with someone?” Aveline’s brows drew together. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t take a spymaster, but,”

“I wasn’t telling you for sympathy.” Hawke crossed her arms, petulant. “I just,” she breathed through her nose, “wanted someone to know, I guess, what I did. I’m not _devastated_ , but it was terribly embarrassing.”

Aveline smiled. “I understand, Hawke.” And, after losing a husband, after what could have potentially happened with Donnic, of course she did. Aveline knew more about love than all of her friends, probably. Aveline didn’t dream about running away with her girlfriend to perform party tricks in Orlais. She was more responsible than that.

After a moment of tense silence, Hawke spoke. "You really think Fenris and Isabela don't make a good couple?"

"She clearly only wants one thing."

"I don't know, they might be good for each other," Hawke laughed.

"Well," Aveline bent down to pet Sarge. "I know one thing,"

"What's that?"

"Harvett Worthington is kicking herself now."

"Yeah, look at me, with my fancy house and my fancy title!" Hawke smiled. "Thanks, Aveline."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s never clear how far apart events are in-game, besides the obligatory 3-year gaps, so I took a little liberty with this, placing Showdown during this time, _prior_ to Act 3, and the rest of Act 3 (tensions escalating and specific events) falling into place during both 9:36 and 9:37 Dragon. Apologies if the pacing seems strange in comparison to the game. Thanks for all the kind feedback so far!

_9:35 Dragon, 8 Months Pregnant_

“A dinghy?” Hawke regarded the small boat with dismay. “This is my surprise?”

Isabela threw a sack into the boat, leaping in after it and holding out a hand for the other woman to take. “Can you just trust me?”

“I trusted you to take me on a rather lengthy stroll through Lowtown.” Hawke uncrossed her arms, cinching an arm around Isabela’s waist when the small craft rocked a little underneath her. Maker knew, she had no fondness for boats, but Isabela had shown up to appropriate her from her home with the lure of a gift and Hawke was happy for a reason to leave. She rethought this as the docks grew smaller, though not entirely out of sight. “You’re going to maroon me, aren’t you?"

"I am determined to give this child better sea legs than her genes have provided.” Isabela pulled the oars in and set them off to the side. She reached behind her for the sack, pulling out bread and what looked to be nearly-soft cheese.

“Oh, Isabela, you’re a wonder.” Hawke snatched the cheese before the other woman could slice into it. “I take back all those horrible things I said about you, inebriated or otherwise.”

Isabela leaned back and moved her bandanna down to cover her eyes, but Hawke could see her smile as she tore into the bread. Whether warship or lifeboat, this woman was truly at home on the sea. When the baby moved, as it often did when Hawke ate now, the pirate stuck a foot up to feel it kick, her grin becoming broader. “See? Stronger already.” She lowered her foot and lifted the edge of her bandanna to shoot Hawke a warning look. “You’d better not have that beast aboard my vessel.”

“I don’t know, Isabela.” Hawke lowered her voice to a purr. “You and me, alone on a dinghy, does make me feel a bit faint.”

“Then faint if you like, just keep the water outside the boat, if you please.”

Hawke grinned, unrepentant. “The flirting’s all right, yeah?”

“What?” Isabela sat up, dusting crumbs off the front of her shirt. She looked confused, then unimpressed, "If you mean Fenris, messere, I will flirt with whoever I damn well please. Now, show me your breasts as penance for such a _foolish_ remark."

Hawke laughed then added, a little imploring, "Honestly, is that,” she took another bite of her cheese, “are you two...?"

“Are we what? _An item_? Has the idea of motherhood prompted you to join a knitting circle?” The look that Isabela shot her was pitying, though Hawke felt it was meant to come across as insulting. “We have sex and I’m not _actively_ having sex with anyone else. Stop looking at me like that.”

“No, I’m not doubting your commitment to non-commitment.” Hawke lied, finishing her cheese. “Just wondering how one _passively_ has sex, especially you.”

Isabela splashed a bit of water at her and, for a quick minute, they were engaged in a back-and-forth battle, punctuated by giggling and very awful swears.

“Don’t pretend you’re not just as bad as I am, Hawke.” Isabela shook a reprimanding finger. “It’s not as though you’ve let Donnic keep you from propositioning Aveline in full view of the guard."

“Yes but it's Aveline, she hardly notices."

“True.” Isabela acquiesced. “Enough about me, what about you, eh?”

“What about me?”

“Far-off gazes, punching fruit, I know the signs.”

For a brief moment, Hawke suspected Isabela’s sole intention for bringing her out here was soul-bearing with no escape, but surely she didn’t think she’d have to go to such measures.

Or perhaps Hawke’s friends knew her too well.

Damn.

And so, Hawke lied, in the sense that she didn’t tell Isabela what she wanted to hear. She told her, instead about her childhood. About Bethany and Carver and her father and mage-born children in Ferelden. The other things weighing on her mind, now that she had the time to dwell on them. Things she generally only spoke about with Varric or Sarge and, on one very memorable and very drunk occasion, Sandal. Isabela’s face took on that sage look Hawke sometimes saw late at night (on equally drunk occasions) and told her about her own mother, or at least enough to tell Hawke would be better, a husband, and travelling to Ferelden.

And if Isabela knew she was avoiding a different topic, she was kind enough not to mention anything. After all, she was avoiding one, too.

Anyway, it was a nice conversation with a good friend. Hawke admitted, first to herself, then aloud, a picnic at sea had been a wonderful surprise.

* * *

In a different life, one where Hawke was not expecting a child, her only sister not locked away in the Gallows ( _for her own safety_ , a mocking voice scolded from somewhere closer to the surface of her thoughts than she’d like), and her mother in all ways blissfully present, Hawke was sure things would have been more awkward between Varric and she. In this world, resting comfortably along her eighth month, smuggling out letters from the Kirkwall Circle, her mother, in every sense of the word, _dead_ , she hadn’t the time, honestly.

She ate better, slept more, and studied magical theory with a fervor she had once placed to the practical applications of smashing heads in the King’s army. Smashing heads had been fun, for the smasher, and pretty easy when she had her muscles built and the pattern down. Magical theory, on the other hand, was dry and broadly opinionated. It did make for a wonderful sleep aide, however.

The garments and baubles from her mother’s room slowly disappeared, saving only a coffer for her child or, Maker be praised, Bethany to one day rifle through. Books from the main room slowly filled a new bookshelf and the amount of toys Varric brought near-weekly bordered on gratuitous. True to his word, the dwarf hadn’t mentioned her request and subsequent disastrous confession since that night and Hawke was grateful for his silence on the matter. If she happened to notice that they rarely found themselves alone together, she didn’t mention it and neither did he. Varric’s ability to recognize Hawke’s strange way of both needing space and needing to appear as though she needed none at all was yet another small kindness added to the _List of Reasons Why Hawke and Varric Should be Street Performers in Orlais_.

It was a very long list and she was devoting quite a bit of her time to _not_ thinking about it.

She felt her life fall into a different sort of lull. A quiet, preparatory hum of sorts as she spent more time around the estate and the Chantry, or rather, away from the dust and rubble of Lowtown.

The others came back from missions more quickly, Varric and Anders refusing to leave at all. Fenris, much to Hawke’s bemusement, seemed more eager to leave as the month wore on and, though Isabela stayed in her own rooms while in Kirkwall, she left with him on those trips. She wasn’t sure what was going on with her friends and, much like her own love life (or lack, thereof), had not the time to dwell on it. Hawke was pleased to note the elf’s interest in his reading lessons, once more, Orana joining them, when she was home.

In spending all her time preparing for one sort of trouble, she found herself completely unprepared when another sort stole up to face her in the Gallows Courtyard, this in the form of the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander.

Every instinct told her to jump between the two, pull them apart. This was, chiefly, due to the fact that Hawke had incredibly unreliable instincts, at the best of times. This should have been her first sign to turn around and walk back home. That both Orsino and Meredith attempted to pull her into their argument, should have been the second. However, she had ignored warning signs easily enough before and, despite all evidence suggesting she should not, she trusted her instincts, preparing to enter the fray with a shrug and a smile.

When Elthina arrived, sending them both away with nothing more than a few words, Hawke felt her shoulders drop in relief. Upon further reflection, the last place she needed to find herself was directly between the leader of the Templars and the head of the mages.

“Gentle people of Kirkwall, return to your homes, this will not be solved today.” The Grand Cleric turned from them to address the crowd of people who had gathered. Aveline and another guard marched up the stairs behind them, collected and solidly _Kirkwall_.

Orsino gave Hawke a solemn nod as he was led away and she nodded back, nonplussed. “Be very careful, Champion.” Meredith glared as people without a sense of humour often do when confronted with a smile.

And, as was so often the case with the Knight-Commander, she couldn’t tell if her words were a warning or a threat.

“What was that about?” Aveline had reached her now and was clearly thinking along the same lines.

“Oh, you know,” Hawke took on a high-pitched tone, “She’s _my_ Champion, no she’s _my_ Champion!” She mock-sighed. “They all want a piece of me.”

“That felt very direct, Hawke.” Aveline cocked her head in the direction of Meredith's retreating back.

“The Knight-Commander expected me to declare allegiance where everyone could see.” Hawke shrugged. “I swear, give someone a title the once and you think you’re _owed_ something.”

Still, it was worrying. Hawke bit her lip. Was Bethany in danger? Had word of Anders' little group gotten out? Had the Templars who weren’t involved weeded out the remaining underground? The possibilities were many.

“Excuse me, Champion?” Said a voice that was mysterious, for now.

“See, what did I tell you, Aveline?” Hawke looked over her shoulder and down a little to the two women behind her. Recognition spun slowly around her mind. “No, wait, I know you. You’re the two girls who defiled the bench of sacred arses!” Hawke turned around fully, with a grin. The two Chantry sisters behind her weren't glued at the mouth, this time, but their dual looks of shock were almost instantly recognizable.

“I’m Juneth and this is Seran.” The more talkative of the two, Juneth, introduced them after a moment of red-faced silence. “Yes, we are...who you say. We appreciate what you did for us then. Small though it may seem, it could have gotten us in severe trouble. Some of the mothers are,” she struggled, “unforgiving.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Hawke narrowed her eyes.

“You wouldn’t like the reality, either.” Seran squeaked, half-behind the other woman. “We must be always vigilant in our duties. They’ve kicked girls out for less.”

“In any case, we’ve kept our ears open since then.” Juneth explained. “Things have been strange for a while, but since the Viscount,” she choked a little, “since Meredith’s stewardship,”

“I’ve noticed.” Hawke replied sardonically, arms crossed. Granted, she had better sources than most, but even without this showdown, she’d have to be a great deal of stupid not to have at least _noticed_. The new restlessness, the discontent, it all circled back to Meredith and the mages.

“I don’t think we’re controlling the lyrium, anymore. Either the mothers trust what the templars are using it for, or they just don’t care.” Juneth whispered and Hawke nodded quickly. A few of her mission reports had informed her as much, though she still wasn’t sure how the Chantry was involved. A neutral party, it seemed. Juneth continued with a beseeching look. “And there have been whispers that you are with child.”

Hawke didn’t blink, but it was a difficult task. Of all the possibilities, this was, strangely, the last on her mind. She was both amazed that that people were thinking about her that way and surprised the information hadn’t leaked sooner. It had been eight months and she still wasn’t showing beyond a small bump, but she spent more time around town and inactive. Then again, the midwives and older women in Lothering had a way of _knowing_ about a woman sometimes. Perhaps everyone was just being polite, until now?

“I don’t think anyone would care, normally, but the fact that there has been nothing formal reported to Grand Cleric Elthina or any of the local midwives. Meredith called it suspicious. With your sister under the Circle’s care,”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Hawke interrupted with a low snort.

“knowledge of the Amell bloodline is both ready and available.” Juneth finished.

“So her warning was meant as a portend.” Aveline crossed her arms.

“Coming from the Knight-Captain, I don’t expect an empty threat, no.” Hawke agreed. _As we originally suspected. A mage child as leverage._ “Why doesn’t Meredith just _ask_ me? I’m tempted to call the woman a lot of things, but at least one of the polite ones is ‘straight-forward’.”

“If she’s correct, than the woman _she named Champion_ is temporarily out of service,” Juneth reasoned, speaking over the derisive noises Hawke made, “if not, I imagine it could be taken as, well, fairly insulting?”

Hawke’s eyes bugged. “She’s concerned about calling me fat?”

“It’s politics, Hawke.” Aveline sighed. “She’d not be questioning your size, clearly, but your character. I’ve seen men of higher rank turned out for less.”

“Madness! This isn’t _Orlais_!”

“Do not be frightened, Champion.” Seran spoke, a little more surely this time. “The Maker watches over you and guides your steps. The people will rally at your side.”

“I’m not frightened, I’m angry.” Hawke reassured the girl. “Has Elthina heard these, ehm, whispers? The lyrium _or_ the other?” Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“If she has, she’s said nothing of it.” Juneth spoke plainly, but Hawke saw her gaze drift downwards.

“The Grand Cleric has judged your character as worthy.” Seran stuck her chin out. “And she detests idle gossip.” _She reminds me of Anders._ Hawke thought, feeling a little unkind at the comparison, though she wasn’t sure why. Anders’ ambition was irritation in human shape, but it was admirable in that she lacked the quality in herself. She was driven, certainly, but until this whole _child_ business she hadn’t put a thought to things like _purpose_ or _duty_. Those were words made for people like Anders and Aveline.

She’d have to thank them for setting an example, one day.

“If that’s the case, have a care, kissing in corners, you two.” Hawke turned away with a smirk. “And keep your ears open!”

* * *

Fenris’ mansion (as Varric made sure it now claimed on the paperwork) was still cluttered, with very little light save what Hawke internally referred to as _the reading room_ , but it was far less dusty and that was a feat. She had offered a part of her Bone Pit Crew, who hadn’t turned a profit in a few months, a fact she would investigate first hand when she could separate from the baby.

“Looks like you’ve done all right without my guys.”

“As I said, it wasn’t necessary.” Fenris tilted his head, moving out a chair out for her. Hawke scoffed, taking the chair opposite. She was pregnant, not limbless, and he had never moved her chair for her before. The elf took it with unusual grace, falling into the chair himself. “Isabela’s been helping.” He admitted, after a moment of busying himself with an inkwell.

They were practicing S’ today. She wasn’t particularly scholarly and passing on knowledge that didn’t involve a blade wasn’t a strong suit of hers, as it were. She was sure the only reason she was allowed to teach Fenris his letters was because he had almost zero friends. Well, besides Isabela, it seemed, but they probably didn’t do any learning beyond the carnal.

“Well?” Fenris lifted a brow.

Hawke looked in front of her, and said nothing.

She pushed a sheaf of paper towards him. And continued to say nothing.

“I said Isabela’s been helping.”

“That’s very kind of her.” Fenris gave her a flat look and she let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, I haven’t asked any questions and I don’t plan on it, all right?” And that part was true. They had been reading together for nearly a month. Perhaps Fenris thought the presence of the others in her house was keeping her tongue in check. “Clearly she has whatever it was you needed." There was an awkward moment before Hawke rolled her eyes, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Fenris blinked. “We’re…”

“Yes?”

“Just having, ehm, fun.”

“Keep telling yourselves that, Fenris. Maybe if you say it in synch, you’ll believe it.” Hawke batted her eyes prettily.

Fenris grunted, an annoyed furrow between his brow. “I’m glad she was right. You don’t seem particularly...upset.”

She softened a bit. “Thanks, but I’m fine _really_. You’ve been happier, she’s been happier, I need happy friends. Keeps my stress level down.”

“ _Happy_ is not the word that Isabela or Varric,” he considered, “or any of our friends would use to describe me, I think.”

“We’ve established that Isabela is a biased party. And the others can’t read the facial expressions well enough, that’s all. You’re _practically_ glowing.” She snorted, pulling the paper to her and making a hard ‘s’ with her quill.

Fenris shook his head. “You’re making fun of me.”

“You’re such an easy mark. Surely it’s why she keeps you around.”

“I told you we’re having fun.” He pulled the paper back and copied her movement several times.

“You’re supposed to.” She didn’t finish _in a relationship_ , because even she knew that might be pushing it. But they were, well, _something_. Something different than Isabela’s usual. Otherwise she wouldn’t have picked Fenris. It would have been someone more like that Zevran fellow or, she straightened a little, herself. Someone to leave without the guilt. Someone a little less _breakable_. “In any case, I’m glad she’s helping fix this place up. This little pip’s popping soon.”

Fenris looked distinctly unamused. “Keeping that in mind, what was this I heard about a dust up with the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander?”

“I swear, it was people making it my business again. I tried to stay out of it, but everywhere I go they pull me in!” She had her hands up before he finished speaking. “Looks like things are getting heated with those two. Well, more so than usual. I’ve told Anders we won’t be using the templars for a while. I don’t want to be involved if Meredith already suspects me of something.”

What she didn’t reveal was what Anders had said to her afterwards. His own plans to break away from the Mage Underground and go it alone, admitting that things had gotten too dangerous for larger groups of magic users. Though Hawke knew it was the wisest course of action until a new leader was elected and the climate settled into something readable, she couldn’t get a read on Anders’ reasoning for such a quick withdrawal, especially with the knowledge that others were still in need. No offense meant, but the man couldn’t leave a stray kitten out, let alone a child.

She didn’t have the time to question him now, and for the most part their conversation stuck to baby-related topics, but _soon_ they were going to have a nice, little chat about all of this. Besides, he looked a little lonely and though asking him to come by for Wicked Grace that night seemed to brighten his spirits, that look returned as she left.

“What does she suspect you of?” Fenris asked, bringing her back to the present.

“You know, a baby of all things.”

Fenris laughed shortly. “To think, someone would suspect you of the truth for once.”

“It’s a novelty.”

“Does it worry you?”

“Not overly.” Hawke admitted. “It worries me that she would think to use it as a tool. But so would Orsino, or a bandit, a slaver, any common thug with sense who wanted a leg up. I knew that was coming, they’ve threatened Bethany enough.”

“Does Varric have a plan for this yet?”

_He means if she’s a mage._

“ _If_ she’s born with magic, we’re all capable of lying about it. We have connections in the Circle now and, for once, my standing as Champion means something. I’m going to make life very _difficult_ for someone who takes my child.”

“I don’t think that was ever an issue. The title just made it more official.”

“True enough.” Hawke snorted. “If anyone asks why I’ve been so secretive, well, there’s the question of legitimacy and marriage, which should please the gossip-mongers in Hightown,” Fenris shrugged, a little helplessly, “and any soldier, guard, Templar, even the Lowtown thugs will realise why I kept a baby under wraps.”

“You were weak, in a more vulnerable state.” He quickly amended at her hard stare.

“We’ve read about the Circles outside Tevinter. Are you still concerned about an apostate?”

“I will not be raising her.”

“She’ll be the child of a dear friend. One I hope you’ll have a hand in protecting as you do Merrill and Anders,”

“I protect them inadvertently, at best.”

“All the more reason to,” she searched, “ease your concerns. You’d have far more stake in my child than a traveling companion I force on you.” She didn’t bother adding it was his own flesh and blood. If her conversations with Isabela were anything to go by, he was both intrigued and terrified by the thought of a tiny person he would influence. Hawke had seen it, herself, the way he would swing wildly from questioning Anders behind her back (and not in that rather adorable, worried way that Varric quite poorly hid) to seeming sick at the thought.

Fenris let out a long sigh. “Your Circles are foreign to me. The Circles in Tevinter were education centers breeding yet more power-hungry Magisters. I cannot say these compare, if Bethany’s experience is to be believed.”

“You have rescued mages yourself. You don’t have to look at Bethany or Anders or your Magisters for an example.”

“Even I can admit that there are ways to train a mage as long as one is careful. Make them aware, as your father and sister was, that the danger will always be present, without putting them at risk of other forms of enslavement.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“If the child has anything of my abilities, I would be more than willing to teach her. I know it would have been helpful to have tutelage sooner and I was much older when my abilities were bestowed on me, if angrier.”

She imagined a faceless child accidentally ripping through her chest as she fed, and wordlessly nodded in agreement.

“I,” she shook her head to clear it, “appreciate that, Fenris. Though, she will need an actual instructor of magic, as Bethany had.”

“I can only offer my services, the rest is up to you.”

At the moment, her options for magic instructor were limited to one mage who’d made a deal with a spirit and another who actively practiced blood magic. More than ever she wanted to steal Bethany back from those who took her, if only for a bit of middle ground.

“I’ll speak to Varric about it.” She shrugged. “I’ve had him looking into lyrium. Perhaps his contact is someone who can help me.” She looked at the paper in front of Fenris, deciding a change of subject was in order. “Now, your lines are too sharp. What you’re writing is closer to a Z than an S. You want to _curve_ like this.”

* * *

“Rivaini’s settling down with the natives, eh?” Varric chuckled. “Damn. I think I had ten sovereigns on her high tailing it at the first sign of work.”

Hawke snorted. “You lost that ages ago. Besides, what’d I tell you about betting on Isabela?”

“I know, I know,” the dwarf waved her off, “I should have held out until after the brothel reconstruction. Still, she doesn’t seem the settling down type.”

“Nah,” Hawke smiled, “just digging her heels in a little.”

The two were cloistered on the balcony of the second floor, sucking the juice from melon slices, and occasionally aiming the seeds at the head of a passerby. Everything, to Hawke’s amazement, seemed comfortable. She couldn’t say she’d actively avoided being alone with Varric since her, admittedly embarrassing confession (if she could even call it that). She would admit having tried to avoid… _inconvenient_ thoughts, much harder to block out in his presence.

“At this point it might be best to have Aveline look into the lyrium. Everything looks clean on the Guild’s end. You’ll see more with guard’s eyes.”

Hawke snorted. “You want to tip Aveline off to Coterie activity. Who are you?”

“Hey, we scratch each other’s back.” Varric affected a wounded look. “Besides, I still need something for her wedding. Let it never be said we Tethras’ skimp on gifts.”

“I’m making her a tunic.” Hawke straightened proudly. Varric looked dubious, then frightened. “Well, I’m having _someone_ make her one, in any case.” She elbowed him and he eased a little. “There are Ferelden customs about the females of the family hand-stitching hems and blah, blah, blah.”

“I think our illustrious captain is more than fine leaving _some_ customs behind.” Varric placed the remaining seeds in her fist, his large palm held steady underneath her own cupped one. He kept his hand there, just that little bit too long. It was a small gesture and one he’d done so many times before. “Besides, Leandra was an Amell, your father was...probably from here, and you’re the Champion of Kirkwall. You’re practically a Marcher.”

“You know, you _can_ just admit that I’m the most _amazing_ friend you’ll ever have, and you don’t want me limping back to Lothering.” She nudged at him with a shoulder and a crooked smile. “No need to besmirch my homeland.”

“ _Messere_ , I would never!” He said with his usual, roguish lilt, though she was secretly pleased he didn’t deny the former part of her statement. “I hear Ferelden has wonderful...pets.” Sarge lifted his head from the corner, panting happily.

“That’s Ferelden,” Hawke looked down, raising a brow, “producer of quality dogs. The incredibly rich and charming people of Kirkwall haven’t beat us in that area.”

Varric followed her gaze and, seeming to realise the undercurrent of their conversation, took a small step back. “I know being around such pleasant persons as myself may confuse you, Hawke, but despite what some of the nobles in Hightown proclaim, we are not, in fact Orlesian.” She looked away, snorting a little as his voice took a more placating edge. “I am indecisive, terribly vain, a poor drunk. Oh, and did I mention the lying? I lie, a lot. That bit about being pleasant? Lie.”

Hawke smiled. “I know what you’re doing and, some other time, I’ll really appreciate it.”

“Not tonight?” Hawke shook her head, throwing the rest of the seeds in the direction of the greenery below. Varric scratched behind his ear looking unsettled. “I’ve been on, _am on_ the other side of this. Kind of. I can’t say I know what to do here, I just know I’d like things to be normal.”

“Are things _normal_ between you and Bianca?”

“We try.” Varric laughed. “It’s, uh, difficult, yeah.” He sighed, leaning with both arms outstretched against the balcony. “I’d like them to be.”

Hawke examined his profile in the low light and leaned, more relaxed, beside him. Once again, she tried to imagine a very young Varric wooing a pretty dwarf named Bianca. _She’s married._ She had imagined a dozen scenarios in her head since he had let that bit of information slip, each more extravagant than the next. The inside of Hawke’s head painted a picture a bit like the stories Varric told about his crossbow. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the truth, now.

And outside of her head hadn’t been much of an improvement. Since she considered the possibility of a _them_ , small things stood out to her. The way he moved his hands when he told a joke, how often he scratched his neck or his ears, how long he let his stubble grow and what he smelled like after he shaved. Stupid, ordinary things that should, by all rights, mean _nothing_ to her. They _had_ meant nothing to her before, hadn’t they? Yet she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember a time when anything Varric did or said meant _nothing_. In all her confusion, the tumultuous thoughts, that at least she was sure of. Varric had always meant _something_ to her.

“I promise I won’t deprive Kirkwall of my presence for the foreseeable future.” Hawke pulled back from the balcony, crossing her heart in a small movement that her mother and father used to make. _Cross your heart, Marian, don’t tell lies._ “I’ll admit to an irritating habit of avoiding my problems but you’re not a problem, Varric, you’re just a friend.”

“Yeah?” Varric turned to her, eyebrows raised.

“ _Yes_.” Hawke hissed, arms out in a small shrug. “Now can we hug and forget this conversation happened?”

“You want hugs? I can do hugs.”

And because Hawke was the one being hugged, she was summarily dragged and settled onto the balcony’s lone bench before the dwarf sat beside her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing tightly. Their hugs were generally of the one-armed, drunken variety, so it could be hard to tell, but it was true; Varric could indeed do hugs.

 _This was the worst idea._ Hawke thought, bumping her head against Varric’s chin, her arms moving automatically to rest along his spine. _And you’ve had some bad ones._

Hawke knew her mind. Bad things happened, she ignored them, they came back to bite her in a rather spectacular fashion, and she dealt with them.

But that didn’t make what she had said untrue. Relationships weren’t battles or deaths. They were, well, people and far more complicated. Like dealing with an infected wound or the cough long after a cold. And this was Varric. He wasn’t going to go away, even if she wanted him to (and she admitted she never would). In truth, they were more than friends. They were partners. They had wormed themselves into one another’s affairs in what seemed to be an inextricable way. Hell, he managed her _estates_.

 _Maybe I’m just like him._ She thought, feeling quite sorry for herself. _Maybe this isn’t ever going to stop hurting._

Then Varric began to talk; about how the lyrium was probably just a powerplay but the red stuff still worried him. How Fenris would be a good teacher, or no a terrible one, better yet how all of Hawke’s friends that weren’t named Aveline should stay one hundred feet away from Hawke’s daughter for ten years. Sometimes Varric’s stories worked this way, a progression he saw long before you heard. With an evolutionary grace he moved from how soon babies could use a stave, to when dwarva first received weapons, a gift or a prize, to the Provings in Orzammar, then back to the sky where he had won a beautiful crossbow from a dying wolf. There was no sense to it, lying about Bianca’s origin, but it was probably so familiar to him that he had a backlog of stories to tell. He must have thought she had fallen asleep at some point because Varric began to hum above her, something familiar, she thought she’d heard it in the Chantry. She felt the baby move a little lower down and grabbed Varric’s hand without thinking.

 _Or you could hope for normal,_ She thought, leaning back a little to watch him let out what could only be described as a _giggle_ and pull his hand back when the baby had settled into something completely uncomfortable for Hawke, _we’re clever, or lucky enough to pull it off. Besides, we’re both in love with someone we can’t have._ She patted her stomach lightly. “Peas in a pod, us.”

“Little pea, that’s a new one.”

“Please don’t call her pea.” Hawke chuckled, feeling a hand at the base of her skull.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for birth scene--as previously mentioned, nothing graphic, but anyone who doesn't want to read _anything_ involving birth, may want to avoid this chapter. I should also take this moment to say that you should not take this as a guide to childbirth as a majority of it is inaccurate, hand wavey nonsense. I feel like that should be obvious as anyone reads, but it needs to be said in any case. Thank you for the feedback and support! It’s been amazing!

“Why didn’t Prisspot want to deal in tonight?”

“Guard duty.” Varric replied to Isabela without looking up from his hand. Hawke tapped her cards together absently thought about how very good the woman had been for Fenris. In the hour that he and Anders had been in each other’s company, they hadn’t raised their voices once.

Granted, they hadn’t _spoken_ , but that was semantics.

“Guard duty, right.” The woman replied disbelieving. “I’m sure she’s _on top of things_.”

“You’re one to talk, Isabela!” Merrill snorted into her hand. “How many games have you missed?”

They all laughed at that, even Fenris, though he did look rather pointedly at the table.

"Ow.” Hawke sat up straighter in her seat.

“What’s wrong?” Anders placed his cards face down, attention immediately drawn to her hands, which were, not without purpose, clutched to her stomach.

“Ow, ow, ow, I don’t know.” Hawke pouted unhappily.

“Is the da’len kicking?” Merrill squealed, nearly jumping over Varric to get to Hawke’s side. “I haven’t felt it kick yet, let me feel!”

“No, she’s not _kicking_ , Merrill!” Hawke bit out, teeth clicking together.

“Hawke, deep breath.” She heard Anders speak from behind her eyelids and drew a deep shuddering breath until the clenching passed to her back then dissipated entirely.

“Okay, it’s, um, it’s passed.” She blinked hard. “Shouldn’t have snuck those spiced nougats."

Anders looked disappointed, but didn’t question her any further. The game continued, as normal, for another half hour.

“Oh, nope! Nope!”

The pain came back, searing in its intensity and she looked at the ceiling of the Amell family parlor. Tears leaked from her eyes, tracking down her cheeks without her permission. She had experienced false contractions. These...were not those.

When she was able to see straight ahead again, everyone in the room stilled, Varric standing behind Merrill and holding her by the shoulders, Fenris’ eyes wide and Isabela’s equally narrowed. A light blue spell from Anders’ direction let her know she was being monitored, a feeling she had grown accustomed to over the months.

“Game’s over.” The mage said, drily. “Looks like someone’s ready to join us.”

“I’m counting this as a win for me.” Hawke grinned, standing a little shakily and pulling the coins from the center of the table towards her.

“Glad to know where your priorities are.” Varric chuckled, releasing Merrill and helping Hawke, who lifted a shoulder lazily.

Merrill shot up as soon as she was out of Varric’s grasp. “The baby’s coming!” She called over the banister, startling Orana into dropping a plate of cakes. “Sulahn, Orana! Da’len dar’garas!”

Orana glared up at the other elf until Anders' head appeared beside her. “A tub of water and some towels to Hawke’s room, please, Orana.”

* * *

Anders and Varric set out for the mage’s clinic at a brisk pace, leaving the others to make Hawke comfortable in her room. She would say she felt pampered, but mostly she felt bloated and nauseous.

Isabela gave her a root from her side-pouch to chew on; it dulled the pain, but it had made her lightheaded and giggly. Orana fretted around her, wringing her hands and asking a great too many questions for Hawke’s gummy brain. At some point, she suggested that, while Anders was a capable doctor, perhaps an unwed man should not be in her messere’s room when the birthing took place and Hawke wasn’t _that_ far gone.

“Anders _will_ deliver this baby when he returns.” She folded her arms and glared. The elf looked at her feet with a hard sigh. “Oh, stop worrying, Orana! He’s been training for this. Besides, it can’t be that difficult. My father helped my mother deliver me on the floor of our hut.”

Fenris took a deep breath and turned away. “I think I’ll take that as my exit cue. The less people hovering, the better. I’ll let Captain Vallen know what’s happening over here.” Fenris motioned for Merrill to follow him as he reached the door. When the other elf didn’t move, he spoke to her directly. “Come, witc--Merrill. There may be time for her to sleep, still.”

“Do you think I have never seen a child born amongst my people?” Merrill paused in the middle of the room, hands on her hips and a fierce look directed at Hawke. “In fact, you still haven’t explained why you didn’t ask me for help, sooner.”

“I don’t think now is the time,” Orana started.

Fenris cut in, voice low. “Perhaps she did not trust a blood mage to,”

“How is a man _known possessed_ any better? I swear that’s all you see when you look at us,”

“Everyone out!” Isabela dug deep for what Hawke called her _Captain Voice_. Fenris bowed his head and left, Orana shuffling out after him. “You too, Kitten.” She lifted a brow at Merrill and, when the younger woman opened her mouth to protest, Isabela continued. “If you’ve seen kits born, than you know that it probably won’t be out for another few hours. Could be even longer. No sense in fussing around the mother, causing her grief. If you don’t want to go home, then go help Orana. Calm her down a little.”

Merrill seemed to perk up at this, her ears lifting slightly. “I ruined her cakes. Maybe she’d like to make some more?”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate the help.” Isabela nodded as Merrill exited in the flurry that accompanied much of her life.

“You’re,” Hawke leaned on her elbows, “a terror.”

“Empty room.” Isabela waved at the closed door proudly. “Well, mostly.”

“What did I tell you about being around me?” Hawke fell back with an ‘oomph’, rubbing her stomach gently as another dull pain passed. “This was bound to happen.”

Her laughter petered out into something quiet. She felt a wet cloth on her forehead.

“Sleep, Hawke.”

* * *

She drifted in and out of sleep, her wakefulness signaled by the arrival of Anders and Varric and, more importantly for Hawke, the notice that she would no longer be allowed to chew on her wonderfully numbing plant stuffs. Isabela and Varric left and when she was huddled at the edge of the bed, well and truly awake from the pain, Varric returned with Aveline to tell her they had set up guard.

“Why are you guarding my house?” Hawke narrowed her eyes.

“Breathe, Hawke.” Anders flipped a page in his book. He had paid her the utmost attention upon his arrival, but after a few hours of nothing and then more nothing, he had settled into a corner to what Hawke could only describe as _relax_. _It was infuriating._

“I’m breathing!” She turned to hiss and then took in a large gulp of air as she had not, as he had correctly guessed, been breathing. “I told you _not_ to guard my house, Aveline! It just draws attention.”

“So does yelling, 'oh Maker, I see the head!' in Hightown.” Aveline lifted a brow.

"I don't sound like that." Anders muttered.

"It's only Donnic, Brennan, and I." Aveline continued, unperturbed. "We're prepared to keep anyone out of the Amell Estate, for _whatever_ reason." Hawke caught her meaning. Anders had offered to perform a magical birth if the natural methods failed her and though Hawke had turned him down flat it wouldn't stop him from ‘saving’ her and the baby without her permission. Then there were the Templars. She doubted Meredith would move against her, especially without Chantry support, but she had to admit, the Kirkwall City Guard at her back eased her mind. "Save your consternation for the more immediate task."

"Thank you, Aveline." Hawke held her back as a cramping pain spread outward and lingered. It was a few minutes before she could see straight. Anders had lowered his book, slightly.

"The time between them is getting shorter." He announced to the room. Aveline gave Hawke a long look before exiting to find her post once more.

"Take care of her, Blondie." Varric laughed, though there was no mistaking the seriousness of his words as he slapped a hand on Anders' shoulder, jarring the book a little more.

"I have everything under control, Varric," Anders sounded confident enough to ease the set of the dwarf's shoulders, "she'll be fine."

" _She_ is right here, thank you, and can take care of herself."

Varric examined her, lolling at an awkward angle on the edge of the bed in an attempt to get more comfortable, feet dipped into the water of the tub. He didn't appear impressed. Thinking about it, she probably wasn't at her most impressive. "Just this once, I’m leaving it to the healer."

“Hey,” Hawke bit her lip, “are you going home?”

“And miss out on all the excitement here?” Varric winked. “Not a chance.”

* * *

In the end, she didn't need magical intervention, though she would later claim demons had somehow been involved. It was just after dawn and, from the time of the card game until now, it had only been ten hours. Ten hours of cursing and demanding more pillows and less fire and so very much water. Anders was very keen on water. Hawke was pleased to find how few of those hours were spent on pushing before the squalling infant was laid out beside her, something bodily and disgusting being wiped from her smaller form.

 _I miss innards,_ was probably Hawke’s first thought that was not a curse in the past ten hours. She reached over, pulling the child closer to her and effectively blocking the cleaning cloth.

“Hawke, she needs to be washed.”

“No she doesn’t, she’s beautiful and perfect.” She swatted Anders’ hand away with a giggle. “Stop it.”

The mage sighed, obviously tired, but his next words sounded affectionate. “You should try to feed her as soon as possible.”

Hawke yawned. “Thank you, Anders. You’re a good friend.”

“Sleep well, Hawke.” Quieter she heard, “Welcome to the world, little bird.”

The next time Hawke woke, it was with a clear head and to a quiet room. Sarge was on the floor and Sandal lay on top of him, matching the mabari snore for snore. She could hear the quiet voices of Orana and Bodahn through the door.

_I’m a mother._

_Andraste’s tits, that hurt._

“You awake over there?”

In the corner, Varric held a bundle of blankets. He walked over and presented it to her like a prize flower arrangement or a loaf of bread. Hawke backed up a little bit on the bed and Varric tried to muffle his laugh. “It’s your _child_ , Marian, it doesn’t have teeth to bite, yet.”

“I was just trying to get comfortable.” She blushed. She leaned over and placed a pale fingernail on the baby’s lip, pushing lightly. Her skin, though dark, was lighter against the little girl’s. In the time that Hawke had slept, short judging by the light outside, she had been cleaned and changed into a small, grey tunic and now slept soundly swaddled in the blue blankets around her.

“You did amazing work here, Hawke.” Varric was still smiling at the baby. “Credit to Blondie, too, I guess.”

Hawke chuckled. “I don’t have to entertain now, do I?”

“The guards left at dawn and Orana convinced Merrill to go home with them, if you’ll believe it. Rivaini left a little while ago, too. Said she’ll be back with the elf when you give them the word. Just me and the household now.” Hawke glanced at Sandal curiously and Varric shrugged. “Yeah, uh, he didn’t want to leave the room after he got to see the baby. I didn’t figure there was any harm.”

“No, I suppose not.” Hawke rolled her eyes. "I'm used to him pattering around in here, anyway."

After a moment he spoke again, eyes fixed on the little girl's face. “We can’t keep calling her the baby. You never did give us a name.”

“Islen,” She said, as softly as she could, but a sliver of blue through her daughter’s eyelashes showed she had caught the bundle’s attention. Varric’s gaze turned to her and she continued, “yeah, that’s you. Can you promise me you’ll always be this quiet, please?” She looked up at Varric’s slightly stunned expression and laughed lightly. “Bethany was an _extraordinarily_ loud baby and Carver was an equally impossible toddler.”

“Sunshine? I don’t believe it.” The candle was low, so she couldn’t be sure but she thought he might be blushing.

She had picked the name months ago, after her conversation with Varric in Darktown, and hadn’t given it any thought since. She mentally chastised herself, now. _You named your child after his mother, you daft woman. How did you not see you were in love with him?_

“You know, I thought about Vera.” She recovered with a tease and the dwarf looked at her with a raised brow. “Islen was prettier. After a while, it just kind of stuck.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “we Tethras’ have that tendency.”

“It’s all right. I’ve gotten rather used to having you around.” She smiled, he smiled back, and between them, Islen whined softly.

“Besides, I’ll need you here. I’m not sure I can hold her yet.” She lifted an arm and may have exaggerated her groan as it fell back to the mattress.

“Here, this is probably easier.” Never one to be fooled by Hawke’s manipulations, he placed Islen on her chest and took a step back.

“No, Varric, she’ll fall!” She hissed, pulling her shoulders in and trying to keep as still as possible.

“She won’t _fall_ ,” Varric covered his laugh with a hand, “she can’t even move her head.”

Hawke looked at the bundle on her chest. The nightmares of some _monster_ child from only a few months ago sparked fresh in her mind, but a quiet, snuffling, _baby_ wriggled on her bosom and looked up at her with her mother’s eyes. And now _she_ would be a mother, protecting and teaching. Everyone looked to her for something, but this child looked to her for _everything_. Hawke was blown away by the enormity of this moment.

Then Islen farted and smiled up at her with the happiest little grin.

“What do you think, _mom_?” She didn’t have to turn to see Varric cross his arms, hear the smirk in his voice.

“I'm not sure if it's her smile or the massive blood loss, but I'm feeling pretty good.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned, I’ve cut the birth scene off as a separate upload for those who wished to skip it. So, here you go, have a double upload as an apology for the short chapter, haha. Enjoy!

Hawke was showing Islen what downstairs looked like when Isabela and Fenris returned that evening. They greeted her with looks of dual shock.

“Should you be up?” Fenris looked from Hawke to Isabela.

“No, I don’t think she should.” Isabela sighed.

“I’ve been in bed for almost a _day_ , Isabela.” Hawke groaned. “It was awful.” Then immediately glanced down at Islen, using her most charming accent. “No offense, pip, you’re wonderful, just the product of something truly strenuous.”

Isabela looked accusingly at Varric, lounging by the kitchen entry. “What?” Varric laughed. “Do _you_ think you could do a better job keeping her in one place?”

“You were managing pretty well for a few months.” Fenris shrugged.

Hawke coughed. “ _Islen_ was calling the shots, not me, or Varric.”

“Islen?” Isabela smiled, leaning over to get a better look. “Is that the beast’s name?”

“Very pretty.” Fenris nodded, once, and Hawke laughed. She couldn’t help it, he was so serious, even in the face of a baby.

“She’s a pretty baby.” Isabela ran a finger over Islen’s cheek.

“That’s kind. I think she looks a bit like a potato.” Hawke cocked her head to the side and made a face at her.

Isabela chuckled. “Don’t all babies?”

“Not true! Carver and Bethany looked like beets!”

"And what of her magic?" Fenris asked and the smile dropped from Hawke's face. She had forgotten. "Has the mage said anything?"

Hawke shook her head. "He hasn't been back since this morning."

"He's checking on his clinic." Varric offered. “He’ll probably be back tomorrow. Besides, he was cooped up in here, same as you.”

“Doesn’t explain why you’re still hovering.” Hawke laughed. When she glanced back, Fenris was looking at Islen with a furrowed brow. “Would you like to hold her?” She offered. The elf’s gaze turned panicked and Isabela lifted Islen gently from Hawke’s arms.

“Here, I’ll take her first, coward, just to prove she’s not poisonous.”

Hawke left them and fell onto the couch beside Varric, though she immediately regretted this decision.

“I told you moving so much was a bad idea.”

“I’m fine.” Hawke rolled her eyes. She wasn’t, but she felt it was important to convince herself otherwise. In truth, her breasts were swollen, her legs and abdomen ached and she was sore in places she’d rather not mention in polite company, though she was sure anyone could guess.

Hawke closed her eyes and eventually Fenris did hold Islen, staying in the same, stiff pose and never breaking eye contact with the little girl. After a few minutes a soft noise came from their side of the room.

“She _passed gas_ on me.” A quick look of disgust passed across Fenris’ face.

“Yep, babies’ll do that.”

“It means she likes you!” Hawke grinned broadly. “And that she’ll probably be asleep soon.”

Fenris’ eyes widened. “But I’m still holding her.”

“So keep holding her.” Isabela chuckled. “She won’t transform when she falls asleep.”

Hawke glanced sideways at Varric. “Give her here, elf.” The dwarf stood, rolling his eyes. Hawke had to stifle a laugh as Fenris all but shoved Islen into his arms.

“Let’s show ourselves out.” Isabela tilted her head to the door. “I just wanted to see how everyone was holding up.”

“Thanks, you guys.” Hawke stood and walked over to pull them into a joint hug.

“You’re welcome, dear.” Isabela patted her back after an awkward moment.

Fenris coughed. “Did you fall asleep too?”

“I think you might be the only thing holding me up.”

“Hawke, go back upstairs and _go to sleep_.”

The other woman walked them backwards in an uncomfortable dance until the back of Hawke’s knees hit a soft surface. She folded herself onto the couch once more. And then they were gone and it was silent, save Islen’s snores.

“Fast forward to fifteen years from now.”

“What’s that?” Hawke turned to Varric and he passed over the sleeping infant.

“Nothing. I just look forward to seeing the shit this little one gets away with as a teenager.”

She snorted. “If only because Fenris is fucking terrified of her, yeah, I can see it now.”

“You need me to take off too?” Varric stood with a grunt.

“Maker, no.” Hawke half-sobbed. “I mean, yes, go home, get some stuff, but please don’t leave me alone with my keepers. Apparently Orana is a mess with babies, Bodahn already has a child to look after, and Sandal is, well,”

“Say no more.” Varric held up his hands.

“Please, Varric, stay, help me,” She held Islen up, pitching her voice a few octaves higher, “you’re our only hope!”

“Well, with a plea like that, who could say no?”

* * *

Anders had been at his clinic. However, he did not return the following day, nor the next. It was the end of that week, as Hawke finished what was probably her eight millionth feeding (give or take a few million) that Anders came back to the Amell Estate.

Whoever said that breastfeeding was _instinctive_ and would _just come to her naturally_ was either lying or had blocked out their first year from delirium. Luckily, Islen wasn’t a squirmy baby or they would have a lot to answer for. Unless it was her mother, in which case, well...

She approached it, as she did most things, like a training exercise and, similarly with most things, with Varric by her side. Hawke detached the child from her breast and held her out to the dwarf, who took her, patting her back without question. They had been doing this for the past week, and approached feeding times with a practiced ease, Merrill watching and asking questions every once in a while. She was interested in babies the way Varric was interested in the new person in town or Isabela was interested in sexual positions she’d never heard of. It was something Hawke hadn’t been expecting, though after her outburst the night of Islen’s birth it wasn’t a stretch. One night, she had translated some of the children’s books in Hawke’s studies to the sharp, sweet Dalish notes of her clan, occasionally stopping to explain something. Hawke didn’t mind. It kept Islen quiet, if a little drowsy, and she thought Merrill might miss being First, despite her protestations. Besides, she’d never had any objection to lore. She expected that one day her daughter would learn the Chant, too, as she had.

And every day that Merrill or Fenris and Isabela or Aveline visited and asked for a report, and there was still no sign of Anders, she had added to her prepared speech about leaving her in the lurch. It was pretty good and included one saucy reference to waking up with a cold pillow and another, fairly biting one, comparing him to Fenris. The mage looked so tired, though, almost as tired as she, that she kept these thoughts to herself. And, to his credit, he came bearing good news.

“She’s not a mage.”

“Then we worried for nothing?”

“You learned a little of what it was to be your mother.”

“My child is not a _lesson_ , Anders.” Hawke started, warningly.

“I was giving you a little perspective.” Anders raised a brow.

 _He’s so lucky he brought my child into this world._ She supposed that fact, alone, granted the mage some kind of immunity for his moments of _smug prickiness_.

“Further, she’s not exactly,” said smug pricky mage faltered, “clean.”

“I’ve bathed her just today!” Hawke sat up straighter. Varric turned to sniff at the baby, shrugging.

“No, it’s just,” Anders’ eyes glowed bright and a deeper voice spoke, “though she is no mage, magic sings through her.”

“Justice.” Varric turned the shoulder holding Islen away, more tense in the presence of the spirit. “Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Had hoped we might keep it that way.” Hawke added in a sullen mutter.

“Something you’d care to share with the class?” Varric sighed theatrically. Islen let out a little burp, drawing the room’s attention. Beside her, she heard the dwarf mutter, ‘good job, kid’.

“And speak plainly.” Hawe’s voice took on a hard edge.

“ _I_ was getting to that bit. He means lyrium.” Anders wrested the light from his eyes with a hard blink.

“Like Fenris.” Hawke prompted, relieved to see the brown of the mage’s eyes. “We expected this. It’s why I’ve been reading.”

“I’ve been reading.” Varric lifted a brow and Hawke turned away sheepishly. “ _You’ve_ been falling asleep and drooling on the pages.”

Meanwhile, Anders shook his head. “Fenris’ marks were, we suspect, a tattoo forced on the skin. This is” he bit his lip, "her blood. Like a drug. Like a templar.”

“Oh.” Hawke’s gaze drifted to the snuffling baby in Varric’s arms. The dwarf met her gaze, smile reassuring. “Is she in pain?”

“No,” Anders replied simply, “unless you’ve been injecting her with lyrium, she shouldn’t suffer any withdrawals. This was something, strangely, she was born with.”

“How does that read to everyone else? A spirit could sense magic on her. Could a templar?”

“Perhaps.” The mage admitted. “They might just think she’s carrying lyrium and that’s not _illegal_ , just curious. She has a tenuous connection to the Fade, at best. At most, she may be able to manipulate that connection to do,” he shrugged, “something. Not spells or summonings, but something.”

“An unknown magic for mages to exploit and templars to destroy?” Varric’s tone was deadpan. “Sounds fascinating.”

“Like I said, she _isn’t_ a mage.” There was an underlying anxiety in Anders’ tone, now. Perhaps the reappearance of Justice had startled him, as well. “Without being able to perform magic, without the risk of possession, they would have to work hard to find a reason to hold her in any Circle.”

“That may be all the reason they need.” Hawke ran a hand through her hair. “Will it harm her later?”

“I can’t promise anything.” Anders said, a little somber. “I can say that she is, in all other ways, perfectly healthy, if a little small.”

“Right.” Hawke rubbed her palms, damp with sweat, down her thighs. Beside her, Islen became fussy, as she often did after eating, and Hawke took her back. _Deal with later, later._ “Do you think you could give us a little light show? Dad did it for Bethany and Carver sometimes when they couldn’t sleep.”

Anders shrugged with a little laugh. “I can’t see why not. It’s a nice change, magic lulling children to sleep rather than haunting their dreams.”

* * *

For the next week Hawke could almost say she felt relaxed. Her child was (basically) not a mage, Varric and Anders were over on a nearly daily basis and her other friends visited in shifts to give her arms a break, and, for those first two weeks, she was convinced Islen had heard her wish to be a quiet, happy baby.

“Have you slept?” Varric looked her over, eyebrows drawn together. She was pacing a v-shaped pattern into the floor of Islen’s room, her footsteps matched by the infant’s continuous burbles.

“About thirty minutes, when she’s down.” Hawke spoke through a yawn. “Orana tried to take over, but she just cries and cries.” She laughed, a little desperately. "When you tell this part, make sure I'm flawlessly beautiful and I've had a bath in the last week."

"You're always beautiful." Varric laughed, taking the squirming infant from her arms and resting her in the crook of his own. "But I think I'll keep the _not bathing_ bit. Heroes need flaws and insurmountable odds, not perfectly behaved babies."

Hawke felt a sob rising at the back of her throat, covering her face with her hands in preparation for the screams to follow. When none came, she chanced a peek from between her fingers where Varric watched her curiously. "She's always quieter with you."

"She just needed a new set of hands." Varric lay her down in the crib.

"She hates me." Hawke finally cried, though no tears came. She was too exhausted, in truth.

"Why does she hate you, Hawke?"

"Because I accidentally bumped her head with my knuckle."

"When?"

"Um," Hawke thought.

"If _you_ can't remember, _she_ can't remember. And also, of course she doesn't hate you." Varric led her to her room, and to her bed. "Lay down."

"Am I a bad mother?"

"No," Varric sighed, "you're a very tired mother, but you'll be fine after some rest."

"How do you know?" Hawke's gaze was imploring and Varric shot her a look. "What was your mother like?"

Varric considered this. "Smoker, drinker,"

"An alcoholic?"

"You have to be rich to be an alcoholic. She was a drunk. And seldom in a good mood."

Hawke settled back. "What was she like in a good mood?"

He shrugged. "Clever, liked to hear me tell stories when she was sick, which was often near the end. She tried to be kind, but I think she forgot how somewhere along the way." He laughed, a short tired sound. "I think you may have cursed poor Islen, naming her after my mother."

"That's not true," Hawke stared past him to her door, "she got one thing right."

"Go to sleep,” he shoved her shoulder, “flatterer."

* * *

She decided to head to the barracks with Islen the next day. Aveline had invited her shopping but, given recent events, she had insisted on taking the captain out instead. This served the dual purpose of getting the very cooped-up mother and daughter farther outside than the balcony and reminding anyone watching that she was protected by powerful friends.

As it turned out, most vendors weren’t interested in a baby, even the Champion’s, if she wasn’t going to buy anything. A few of the arms dealers she traded with cooed over her and one woman said she had a _feeling_ when they started seeing less of her. Another offered his sincere congratulations, then sincere apologies when, confused by the baby’s current position, he found himself talking to Aveline instead of Hawke.

Hawke wiped away a tear, taking Islen back from her brief stay in Aveline’s arms. “Your face!”

“You little shit.” Aveline shook her head, then smiled, indulgently.

“We’ll have to do that again for Worthy.” Islen flopped over on her back in a lazy sprawl, making her awkward to carry, but a little lighter as her weight was more evenly distributed. Varric called her a considerable baby, when she lay like this. She must have spoken this last thought aloud, if Aveline’s next words were to judge by.

“It can’t be easy, him being so near.” She sighed.

“Varric’s no trouble. He’s good with babies.” The grin dropped from her face. “Oh, you meant,” she glanced skyward, her cheeks hot. Aveline had been the person Hawke had talked to, when the wound was still festering. Of course that was where her mind was, now.

“I can’t even imagine if Donnic and I, well,” she blushed, seemingly unable to finish.

“If you didn’t have your very good friend, Hawke, to help you? I know, you’re welcome.” Hawke’s preening was received with a flat stare. “Don’t worry about me, Aveline. This little blighter keeps everyone busy, eh?”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s healthy, but in any case I’m glad you’re being an adult about everything.”

“Give me _some_ credit.” She said, lifting Islen, who wiggled her feet when they touched the air. “I’m a mother now!”

Aveline smiled, reaching out to grab one of the tiny digits. “That you are.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to kazzashepard for reading through this chapter.

_9:36 Dragon_

"Varric! She doesn't like the ruffles! Pick something else."

"She's nine months old, how can you even tell?" The dwarf called, his head inside the closet.

Hawke, on her hands and knees in front of Islen's blanket, held the orange monstrosity out in front of the child with little hope. Islen, laying on her stomach and gumming on a knuckle, scrunched up her nose in obvious distaste.

“ _I can tell._ Bring me the green one with the line things on the front. The one that Isabela sent!"

Varric pulled his head out of the closet, handing her the dress in question. "Ribbons, Hawke. The line things are ribbons."

She ignored him, picking Islen up. “She likes this one! Come on, squirmy, Aveline may not be angry at you, but she’ll kill me if we show up late."

“Nahnahnahnahnah,” Islen removed her hand and carried on a one-sided conversation, occasionally turning to face Varric, who would nod and make interested noises. They had learned that cooing at the girl only served to annoy her and she had developed a nasty stink eye in response.

"You know she's coming tonight." Varric put the orange dress back in its place.

“Aveline? I would _hope_ so.”

“ _Isabela_. Just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“That’s great.”

“You're not upset?”

“Why would I be upset? I missed her.” Hawke tied the dress together around the back. “Anyway, tonight's not the night to bring up grievances.”

“Then why's she coming to the wedding of a person she could care less about?”

“Isabela cares about Aveline. They’re just very different people.” Hawke flipped her daughter to face her, her chubby arms held securely around Hawke’s hands, then tossed her into the air. Islen froze upon landing, her eyes widening then kicked her legs out and screeched happily. “Also this gives her a wider audience for drama.” She winked.

“That sounds more like Isabela.” Varric grinned.

“Thanks for the help, Varric, as always.” Hawke bowed her head in mock sincerity, tucking a still kicking Islen into her side. “This one's a handful.”

“Wonder where she gets it from.” Varric arched a brow. He looked around when they reached the bottom of the stairs, seeming only to just realise something. “Where was Orana to help you?”

“I gave her the day off.” Hawke must have looked guilty if Varric’s cross-armed stance was anything to judge by. She sighed, tugging on her coat with a hand. “She had to help her _date_ get ready.”

“ _No._ Really?” Varric’s eyes widened almost comically as he pulled the sleeves of his own light blue jacket over his dark vest. His hair was down for the evening; the light blonde a good contrast to the ensemble. Then again, she found it easier counting the things that looked bad on him rather than keeping track of those that looked good.

“I _think_ Merrill wanted to surprise you.”

“Well I’ll be damned.” He chuckled, taking Islen to allow Hawke freer range of motion. “Daisy’s nothing if not persistent.”

“She deserves a little happiness after that mess with her clan. What was his name? Pol?"

“Not your fault, Hawke.”

“Elvhen mirror using blood magic? For once you don't have to convince me. Work on Merrill instead.”

* * *

They were still, predictably, late. Aveline seemed to expect this and merely shot her an indulgent smile before starting the ceremony. Holding a baby made people soft towards you. That was one of the perks since pushing out her little potato, she thought, standing between Anders and Varric and dividing her attention between the happy couple, Islen, and her blind spots. With all of her closest friends here, this wedding was well-protected. It was also a tempting target for anyone brave or stupid.

"Nananana," Islen said during one of the quieter moments, one arm outstretched to pluck at the feathers of Anders' robes. Varric, and a few others around them, chuckled.

"Oh, don't you start that." Hawke rubbed her back.

"I can hold her, I don't mind."

Hawke shot Anders a grateful smile and passed her over. "You'll have no decorations left."

"That's all right." He returned the smile and held Islen far enough away so she could, indeed, begin the process of removing feathers by the tiny fistful, pulling her hand to her face to examine the contents then presenting them to Anders with glee.

Hawke took a step closer to Varric. "What did I miss?"

"Oh it was awful. And wonderful. The Grand Cleric has sent a letter _refusing_ to let the lovely couple wed."

"No!"

"Turns out _she_ is in love with our Ser Donnic."

" _No_!" Hawke gasped low. "Well, they’re reasonable people, I'm sure they can make it work."

"They were just coming to terms when the Knight-Commander sent her own missive! A poem claiming the Lady Vallen’s heart."

"Marian Hawke and Varric Tethras!" Aveline was looking at her from the front of the room.

“Ouch. Full names.”

"Sorry..."

Varric scratched his cheek. "Sorry, Red."

Aveline rolled her eyes but, as she turned, Hawke could swear she saw her smile. 

* * *

 

"Sorry again, Aveline."

“Oh please. I put all of you in a room together and told you, 'Behave'. I’m grateful that’s the only trouble you caused." She finally let her grin surface.

"Reminding us you're captain even in a long gown and wedding shawl?” Hawke smirked. “This is why you scare people, sometimes.”

"It also stopped me crying." Aveline caught Donnic’s eye across the hall and he sent her a brilliant smile. Hawke hid her own smile behind the rim of her water glass.

“Oh, he’s not so bad.”

“Quiet, you. _Tears of joy_.” And, indeed, Aveline’s eyes were nearly shining. Hawke’s jaw hurt from smiling. “I never thought this would happen again.”

“And, again, you’re welcome.”

“Shut up, Hawke.”

“You’re going to be in Orlais for a while.” Hawke waved at the guards making conversation with the groom. “You afraid, leaving things to Brennan? Need us to step in for anything?”

“Brennan is capable,” the woman let her shoulders drop, “but with no Viscount, the templars feel as though they can bark at my men. It’s infuriating.”

“Varric tried to convince Bran to throw so much paperwork at the Knight-Commander, she’d have to let him take over, out of sheer annoyance, but I don’t think he’s willing to take the risk.”

“He did strike me as a cautious man.”

“Well, Meredith has a very big sword.” The women laughed. “Let Brennan know _the Champion_ will have her back in a pinch. I’ll be of more help with the templars when the pip's a little older, promise.”

The other woman scoffed, looking across the room quickly. “Stay out of it, Hawke. You’re in enough trouble with them as it is.”

Hawke coughed into her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

_Four Months Ago_

“How is your child?”

Hawke plastered on a smile before facing the Knight-Commander. "She's wonderful. You know, I'm surprised you didn't stop by when Cullen did." Hawke pulled Meredith’s letter from her side pouch and balked. "Surely this isn't the urgent matter I was summoned for?"

Meredith let out a great breath, finally stepping away from the desk. "Do not misunderstand my intentions, Champion. I simply wished to ask after the child's health."

“I’m sorry, were there other intentions I wasn’t aware of?”

"I had suspected your child would be a mage," Meredith carried on as though Hawke hadn't spoken, “The Knight-Captain has eased those concerns."

Hawke remembered the day she opened her door to see the man _vividly_ , knife behind her back, Orana with Islen upstairs. Bodahn made Sandal hide, but the boy had the funniest look in his eyes. Knight-Captain Cullen, to Hawke’s delight, was _not_ comfortable around babies, as it turned out, and though he had not said as much, it was clearly the baby he had come to see. She had not expected such a blatant admission from Meredith herself.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"To show you that If I wanted to accuse you of harboring a mage, I'd do so outright." The woman nodded. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Now that sounds more familiar." Varric winked.

"You know I kind of _missed_ it." Hawke whispered with a grin.

"There was an incident within the Gallows. A number of phylacteries were destroyed and several mages took the opportunity to escape."

"Bethany..."

"No, Champion. Your sister has never been any trouble."

"Recessive genes." Hawke mouthed to Varric, her worry ebbed somewhat.

"We've recovered most of the fugitives. However, I require your assistance in tracking down the last three."

"How did the phylacteries get destroyed?"

"An insurrection. Several of my own templars orchestrated the escape, presumably out of sympathy for the mages." She cast her gaze down. "They turned their backs on their duty and endangered their charges, as well as the city. Thankfully most who escaped returned to their families and offered no resistance. The last three are proving more _difficult_."

Hawke nodded as the woman spoke. According to her father, the phylacteries in Ferelden were kept by the Chantry after a mage’s harrowing. That three fully-trained Circle mage’s phylacteries were kept within the templar’s reach was of interest, alone. Had the Chantry really become so lax, here? She would have to speak to Anders.

"I really wish I could help but I have the _aforementioned_ baby to care for." Hawke lifted a shoulder, rotating it slowly. "Besides, do you _know_ what armour feels like on a chest thats still breastfeeding? Even the light stuff! Oh and look, I have this rash,"

"That's quite enough, Serah Hawke." Meredith raised her hands in surrender and Hawke lowered the side of her shirt. The Knight-Commander took a breath through her nose. "I had thought protecting your child from rogue apostates would be a powerful motivator. I had not considered...other circumstances. This is unfortunate."

"Thank you for being so," Hawke blinked, "understanding?"

Varric chimed in, "If it helps, anyone breaking into Hawke's house will know exactly what her _protection_ feels like.”

“What he means is, I _will_ kill them.” Hawke added, almost cheerfully.

"A comfort." To Hawke’s surprise the other woman actually smiled.

_Present_

Hawke mulled their conversation over as Anders walked towards Aveline and herself now, a few feathers less and baby-free.

"You know far too much about what goes on in this city.”

“It’s my job, Hawke.”

“I thought you'd be proud of me for turning her down.”

“Turning her down. Right.” Aveline took a long sip of wine. “And how’s that going?”

Hawke could feel her cheeks redden. “It's your wedding! Don't you have more interesting things to be worried about?”

Aveline gave her a long, hard stare over the rim of her glass before finishing her drink to speak. “You're right. I should be a better host.” She gazed pointedly at Anders, as he settled on the wall beside Hawke. “ _Stay_ out of trouble. _Both_ of you.”

“What did I do?” Anders asked the woman’s retreating back.

“She’s just tense.” Hawke waved a hand. “Where’s Islen?”

“With the,” he blinked hard and bared his teeth in what was an obviously forced smile, “Fenris. And Isabela.”

Hawke stared across the hall to the elf in question. As promised, Isabela stood beside him in a crisp white tunic, holding a small bandana over Islen’s face and pulling it back just as the child caught her hands around it.

She hadn't lied when she said she was glad Isabela was back. The woman had left, only a little while after Islen was born, without a word to anyone, though Fenris seemed to expect it. Clearly it was an issue of space over care, as she frequently sent back packages, including the dress Islen wore and, more than once, melons.

She may have missed this event, the bride certainly wouldn’t mind, but Fenris seemed bothered by the thought in the months leading up to the wedding. He had penned a letter and, whatever it said must have been enough to bring her back. It certainly wasn’t the thought of Donnic and Aveline making kissy face. Watching Isabela and Fenris in the corner now, she had the slightly unpleasant thought that Islen could pass for theirs.

“I’m happy you two are on the first name, light-insult basis, now. It makes things so much easier for me.”

“I’m _sure_ it will last.” The mage snorted.

“Oh, come on,” she beamed up at him, “look at the team you two made! Crime-fighting duo, Anders and Fenris!”

Anders gave her a deadpan stare, but in the face of Hawke’s grin ultimately faltered. “He was surprisingly helpful with the mages.”

“See?” Hawke clapped him on the shoulder, lowering her voice. “Got that all taken care of?”

“Yes,” Anders’ voice lowered to match hers, “I can give you more details, later. For now, two dead, one with his family. Well-funded, well-protected.”

“Thank you.” Hawke nodded. “I know you’ve been trying to stay out of that stuff. Still not sure why.”

“My attention was elsewhere, at the time. Thank you for telling me, in any case.” Anders cast a surreptitious gaze around them, lowering his voice. “As for the _other_ request, are you sure,”

“I’m _sure_ , Anders.” She cut him off. “I can’t say much more than that, yet.”

“Well,” the corners of his mouth rose slightly, “I have someone in mind. With Isabela in town, we’ll have connections in areas we previously didn’t.”

“We’ve gotten some good information from the Rose before.” She winked. “This would be much easier with a new Viscount. Meredith stonewalling everything is driving me up a post. I could get away with almost anything when ol’ Dumar was in charge.” She scratched her neck. “Uhm, Maker bless him.”

“Oh, please, you never liked him.”

“No, not really, but I liked the son. Simon? Seamus. I could have stood behind him, probably.” Hawke shrugged. “Do you think we only end up with shit leaders because all the good ones die young?”

“We end up with shit leaders because power-hungry monsters like Meredith will take advantage of any situation and weaklings like Orsino will _let_ them to keep themselves safe.”

She crossed her arms and ribbed him lightly. “Feel very strongly about that do you?”

Anders sneered and she couldn’t help but laugh. Talking to Anders was like rubbing the belly of a cat sometimes. You never knew when the mood was going to shift.

_Four Months Ago_

“I’ve been taking care of a teething five month old. You want to explain why you look like you’ve had _less_ sleep than me?”

“Islen isn’t the only baby with a fever.” Anders sat with the girl in his lap, letting her chew on one of his fingers. She held onto the digit with both hands, staring up at the feathers on his shoulders with wide eyes. “There may be a sickness sweeping through Darktown soon if I don’t cut it off at the carriers.”

“Sorry to hear it.” Hawke gave him a wet rag and he replaced his finger with the cloth. Islen took the opportunity to sink her chubby hands into the plume above her. “Need any supplies?”

“Aveline’s been helping.” He smiled crookedly. “Not surprisingly the captain of the guard _doesn’t_ want a plague spreading out where _common folk_ can see.”

“Surely you can’t _always_ be helping someone. I mean, look, you’re here now.”

“I’ve been using my off hours to figure out what started this. Diseases here usually start with the water. Or the refugees, no offense.”

“None taken. What did you find?”

“I think it was planted by the templars.”

“Anders,” Hawke began delicately, “you’ve said it so many times. Darktown is a cesspool of disease. The guards, the templars, _no one_ polices there for a reason.”

“This is different. It’s new and localized. Meredith _knows_ Darktown is a place for mages to go, even if she won’t go directly. No one, not even you, would question if a disease wiped almost everyone out down there.”

She nodded. “Okay, so the templars,”

“The Chantry’s probably involved as well.”

“Okay, the templars and Chantry send a, um, a pox to Darktown. And then what? What’s their big plan?”

“There’s,” he seemed to deflate, “not much of a trail.”

“I’m not saying I agree with you. Frankly, I’m worried.” Hawke held up a hand to forestall his objections. “Bah bah bah, not about your opinions, I don’t even know where I stand on that. I’m _worried_ because you look beat to shit. However, you are the man who helped bring my child into the world _and_ you dealt with my bullshit on a near daily basis while pregnant so you must have the fortitude of a dragon.”

 _Or a spirit,_ a voice inside her whispered insidiously, _eating away his insides like the anger in Fenris and the hunger in Merrill._

“I have some people on the inside,” she explained, pushing away her inner thoughts, “a few sisters who’ve been keeping their eyes and ears open. I’ll see if they’ve heard anything. Meanwhile, bring Merrill in on this.”

“Thanks, Hawke.” The tension seemed to leave Anders’ shoulders. “I guess I thought you had enough on your plate.”

Hawke smiled pleasantly, directing her attention to Islen. “I have someone to take care of. It’s a good feeling.” She admitted. “Bethany was taken, mother was gone. I’ve felt somewhat useless for a while. Now, I only feel bored, never useless. My family is gone but I can take care of her. She needs me to protect her.”

“Dont give up on your sister, Hawke.” Anders eyes were steely. “Bethany has not been made tranquil and she has the training to survive there.”

“Give up?” Hawke rested a cheek in her hand. “Oh Anders, quite the opposite. I actually have a _favor_ to ask.”

He bent over to whisper in the little girl’s ear. "That sounds familiar."

"Come on. You missed it."

“Nananad!”

_Present_

“Hey, Hawke, you too busy holding up the wall to shake a leg?” A voice interrupted the awkward silence that had fallen between them and Hawke looked past Anders to see Varric holding out a hand.

“Be back later, Anders! Don’t have too much fun!” She giggled, taking Varric’s hand and dragging him to the middle of nearly twenty dancing guards.

“You looked like you needed saving.” Varric said underneath his breath.

“Good eye.” She chuckled, wrapping one arm around his shoulders, and using the other to pick at her garment. “I hate this dress, it’s got so many bauble things I don’t know why Bethany likes it so much.”

“Beads, Hawke. They’re called _beads_.” Varric smacked her hand away, placing it back on his shoulder and placed his own hands on her waist. “Besides your outfit is marvelous compared to Lyran’s.”

“Oh, what? Who’s that?”

“Bunked with Donnic last year, navy colored.” He spun her around and she caught sight of who he meant.

“Oh, wow, did he just wear his underclothes?” Varric snorted. “Isabela looks good.”

“Please, she just put on pants for once. The elf cleans up nice, though. Not used to seeing him out of his armour.” Varric smirked up at her. “But then, that’s not true for _both_ of us.”

Hawke sputtered, tripped over one of Varric’s feet and nearly toppled them into another pair of dancers before righting herself and falling back into step. “That was the _once_ and I hardly remember it.”

“Oh, now that’s harsh, Hawke.”

“It was all very handsy and rushed.”

“Might want to skip all this when you’re explaining the birds and the elves to Islen.” Varric was smiling more openly now. “Mama, where do babies come from? Well, you see, dear, it’s all very _handsy_ and rushed.”

“I think we’ve established that Isabela will be explaining sex to my child, whether I want that to happen or not.” Hawke waved at Juneth and Seran as they passed and Varric followed her gaze.

“Wonder how they got an invite.”

Hawke lifted a shoulder. “Aveline’s been sweet on the girls since they left the Chantry.”

“That’s what happens when you learn too much about the people you’re following.” Varric sighed.

This time, when Hawke spun to see them, she took in the shining plate mail on Seran’s guard outfit. “Glad she’s found someone worthy to follow, then.”

"Blondie looks more serious than usual." Varric observed as the dance ended. Hawke gave a low curtsey and Varric feigned an impressed look. The music increased in tempo and his look shifted to slight panic. Hawke motioned for him to follow her to the balcony, laughing along the way.

She leaned over the railing and spoke low. “Anders thinks he’ll be able to find someone to replicate Bethany’s phylactery.”

“That’s _good_ news, Hawke.”

“But then what?” She shrugged. “We can't risk letting her know what's going on."

“Hey, just focus on the hard part, all right?” He looked at her imploringly. “Once her vial is out, we’ll have all the time in the world for a plan. You’ll think of something.”

_Three Months Ago_

“That 'contraption that pushes things through walls'?” Varric made air-quotes as he spoke. Hawke could tell this was one step above rolling his eyes so she took it graciously. “It's been made. Apparently it’s not very difficult _but_ she had to call in someone from Tevinter so it'll cost us.”

“Let me worry about that.” Hawke waved him off, examining the letter in front of her.

 _Messere Hawke,_  
_In case you don't remember me, we met in the Gallows a few years ago. You saved my life. Twice, in fact._  
_Bethany sends her love. I should have recognized the family resemblance sooner. Knowing Bethany, it now makes perfect sense that you, of all the people in Thedas, would be the one to rescue me._  
_It's not the kindest thing to say, but nobody misses Ser Alrik. Not even the other templars. I know it's hard to imagine, but they don't want to fight. They want things to be normal: no Harrowings, no Tranquil, no one dying. But none of us are getting that wish now._  
_So many dark whispers in the Circle. Terrible days are coming for all of us. Your sister and I will pray that Andraste keeps you safe._  
_Sincerely,_  
_Ella_

She’d have to show this to Anders. He’d never quite gotten over almost killing the girl and after turning up so many dead ends with the disease in Darktown, this would be a bright spot. Still…

_So many dark whispers in the Circle._

_Terrible days are coming for all of us._

“Alright, time to come clean.” Varric placed a hand over the paper, breaking her concentration. “I've let you hide things long enough because you generally know what you're doing, but if I'm getting my contact directly involved in this, I want details.”

“Your contact won’t be involved.” Hawke moved his hand and folded the paper carefully. “As long as they get us the machine, I don’t even need to know _her_ ,” she looked up, a knowing smile on her face, “name.”

“Are we getting Sunshine out?” Varric continued looking at her steadily.

Hawke tried, and failed to keep the grin off her face. “They don’t keep the vials as guarded here as they did in Ferelden; for whatever reason, they seem to trust their men.”

“Idiots.” Varric laughed through his nose. “That sounds more like an advantage for us.”

“If you’re a templar or a sister, you won’t trip the wards.” She nodded. “Ideally, we could get one of our guys on the inside to take Bethany’s vial out and bring it here,”

“There’s a but,” Varric smiled, crossing his hands over his stomach, “there’s always a but.”

She let out a long breath, “ _but_ they put wards on the phylacteries of certain individuals. Previous escapees and relatives of powerful people like me."

Varric laughed humorlessly, "Of course they do."

"Destroy it and Meredith knows. If it passes through the doors, they'll know."

“Thus, the machine.” Varric nodded along. “Passing it through a wall will work?"

“I haven’t tried it. I read about it and the idea just stuck with me.” Hawke shrugged. "It's the best plan I could think of."

"It's an idea, at least." Varic smiled. “Very reminiscent of the rest of your plans."

"How's that?"

"Unbelievable. Full of plotholes. Unlikely to go off the way you want."

"Wonderful." The corners of her mouth lifted a little.

"Seriously, I can't make this shit up." He laughed. "I’m not worried. You'll pull it off, Hawke. You always do."

" _We_ do." She chuckled. "Thanks."

_Present_

Varric and Hawke sat against the railing, watching the others mill past the open door.

“Why don’t you try to be Viscount?”

“What?” Varric’s laugh was dry and high pitched. “You’re insane. You’re serious?”

“I’m serious. I’ve heard people whispering my name about it, but who better to run the city than someone who’ll give the nobles _and_ the slime equal grief? You’re perfect, Varric!”

“Let’s see, reasons why I would be a terrible Viscount.” Varric stroked his chin, pretending to consider the point. “I’m a dwarf. I’m a _poor excuse_ for a dwarf. I’d let Bianca do the talking for me in meetings. Oh, and I really don’t want to.”

“But you get a fancy crown.” Hawke wriggled her eyebrows. “And you love Kirkwall, more than anyone. I’m pretty sure you piss chains at this point.”

Varric shuddered at the mental image. “Ugh.”

“Fine, let’s talk about something else.”

“Anything would be better than that nonsense.” A cheer rose up from inside and he rolled his eyes. “Or that.”

“Wanna bet?”

“You are _severely_ underestimating how much I hate weddings.”

“And you, ser dwarf, are underestimating my ability to annoy you.”

“I don’t know about that. Have you considered--”

“Tell me about Biana. The _real_ Bianca.”

Varric stuttered. "Alright, you win." Hawke smirked, triumphant.

They continued watching in silence. Hawke traced a line in Varric’s hair with a finger, parting a piece from the rest, and began to braid.

“What was the first thought you had about me?”

“Short for a human.”

She rolled her eyes. “How literary. Is it my go?” He nodded. “Surprisingly nice cheekbones.”

He turned a little to look at her. “Really?

She scoffed. “No. I think that now, though,” she leaned forward to flutter her eyelashes against his cheek and cooing, "such nice cheekbones."

“Hey, stop that, it tickles.”

“Let’s see, first thought.” She pulled back, tucking another piece of hair into the braid. “Probably along the same lines. Short, aim low.”

“Your first thought was how to attack me?”

She shrugged. “I’d just spent a year in servitude for a rather unsavory sort. I also admired your chest if it’s a consolation”

He thought about this, then gave an abrupt nod. “It is.”

The nod tugged at his hair and he made a curious noise, seeming to only just realise what she was doing. "I’ll take them out.” She laughed.

“No, they’re fine. A little fancy for my taste.”

“I used to do this for Bethany."

"I never saw her wear braids." Varric ran a finger along the piece of hair.

"That's because I'm terrible at them." Hawke drew her fingers through the opposite side earning an appreciative hum from the dwarf. "I thought id give it another go in case Islen ever wants them."

“I don’t think the nug’s cried all night.”

“Thank the maker.” Hawke breathed out through her nose.

“Am I interrupting?” Standing at the door was Merrill, Islen in her arms. Hawke pulled away and used the railing to help her stand, leaving Varric with two messy braids on opposite sides of his head.

“Are you speaking to me now?” Hawke crossed her arms and the girl nodded sheepishly, joining them at the railing.

“She kept babbling. I think she was looking for you.”

“Nanah,” Islen squirmed in Merrill’s arms, wriggling her arms out to Varric until Merrill passed her down.

“Did you abandon your date?”

"Orana’s gone home. It got a bit noisy for her, I think.” Merrill turned back to face Hawke. “She’s gotten so big!"

"I pay Orana well enough to eat."

"What?" The elf blushed scarlet. "No, Islen!"

“I know.” She nudged the woman with an elbow, but Merrill’s pout remained. “Please stop being mad at me. I'm only trying to look out for you.”

“That's _why_ I'm so angry, Hawke. I dont need a Keeper. You have a child now, look after her.”

Hawke stared at the elf for a long time before reaching out to ruffle her hair. "Message received, lethelen."

Merrill giggled, straightening out her mussed hair. "It's _lethallan_. And I hate it when you do that. "

_So did Carver._

“What did _I_ say?”

“Nevermind.” Merrill continued giggling. Hawke counted it as a win, reaching a hand down to help Varric up.

Varric had sacrificed a great many things since Islen’s birth the greatest of which, to Hawke's knowledge, was his very fine shirts. Oh he still wore them, she didn't think a power in Thedas could stop him, and tonight’s was a particularly fine specimen.

Islen was good at picking up on what people most cherished on their person and getting it almost immediately covering it in some form of baby gunk. At some point, she had realised how much Varric displayed the hair on his chest and so took every opportunity to drool or sink her sticky fingers into it. He took this as a sign that she was jealous of the attention he paid his own appearance over her and, while Hawke wouldn't give her child that much credit, she did at least recognize how clingy Islen had become to some of her friends.

Another cry came from inside and Merrill dashed to the door on light footsteps. “Oh, hurry, hurry! Aveline’s going to drop the sash!”

“We can’t miss that.” Surely whatever sarcasm Varric offered would go right over the excited elf’s head, but he still made the attempt, pulling his finger out of Islen’s grasp and wiping away a trail of spit. Hawke covered her laugh with a hand.

“Gimme!” She reached out, with wriggling fingers.

“She just fell asleep.” Varric looked put out but passed Islen over, nevertheless.

“I know.” Hawke grinned, unrepentant. “I have a system, Varric.” He rolled his eyes, smiling indulgently and saying nothing.

* * *

“We were going to run aground near the cove, so I told them to start tossing the loot, toss everything. So there they are, three burly men and skinny little Briggs throwing full crates of cloth and iron overboard. We move out a league and I start feeling pretty good. Then, at the last minute, one of my men _tosses Briggs_!”

“He didn’t!”

“Unger, he’s not the brightest.” Isabela wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m standing there, my man flailing in the sea and probably a hundred sovereigns poorer just yelling, ‘That’s not what I meant, you blighters!’”

“Seems like crashing is becoming a hobby.” Hawke nudged her with a foot. “Might want to look into that.”

“Haha.” Isabela replied, dryly. She had popped in for breakfast with several boxes of clothes and treats, mainly for Islen. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, now, Hawke with one foot tucked behind Isabela's back and the other on the floor, Isabela wedged into the corner and turned towards Hawke.

Islen was crawling over the leather blanket Hawke had slowly been working on. It was hideous, in stitch and design, made from scraps of armour she had grown out of or worn down, but it was warm with its inside coated with fleece. She’d probably never finish it.

When she caught Isabela’s eye, the woman was giving her a strange look. “What?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “So, no concerns about the magic?”

“Nothing seems out of the ordinary.” Hawke yawned. “Anders still recommends we teach her some breathing exercises, just in case, but it’s nothing we have to worry about at this age.”

“Fenris said you never asked about where I was.” Isabela leaned a head on her hand. “You weren’t curious?”

“Of course I was.” She motioned to Islen with her chin. “I was also a little busy. Besides, the longer you were away, the more presents we got.”

“Nanananada.” Islen responded, wisely.

“Oh, I know! I missed you, too, little beast.” Isabela pushed off the couch to kneel beside the girl. The top of her ears darkened. “I missed both my birds.”

Hawke smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop the Sash is not my invention. It’s inspired by the old Swedish tradition written about in 'Scandinavian Popular Traditions and Superstitions' by E. Lumley. Excerpt here, “And finally, she should drop something, as if by accident. Then her groom will bend over to pick it up, and she will have assurance that he will 'bend his back to her will' the rest of the marriage.” I thought a tradition like this could exist, if not quite in that fashion.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two quick notes: Hawke’s confrontation with Fenris has been slightly edited due to an error on my part. A line from the game where Leandra speaks about ‘an elf slave’ was something that I (and several others, as it turns out so I feel a little less silly) misconstrued to mean Fenris, when she was _actually_ talking about Orana (perhaps my confusion was that Orana was not a slave at my house, but that’s an issue for another topic). In any case, it was really out of character and Leandra came off looking quite terrible. I’m glad to find out the line was not what I thought but I did have to go back and change a bit (curse of following bits of game canon).  
>  And, about the Thedas calendar--you can find the full list of months on the wiki but for quick reference Bloomingtide (the month Islen was born) is May and Summerday is the beginning of summer. It’s basically celebrated as a big coming of age ceremony. People marry, boys and girls go to the Chantry to learn...er, "adulthood" and they do it all wearing white. For any interested parties, in this fic, Aveline was married Drakonis (March) 9:36 Dragon c:
> 
> Thanks, again, to kazzashepard for the betaread.

_9:36 Dragon_  
  
Hawke pulled her nightshirt off, listening to Islen babble in full, incoherent sentences. The girl balanced herself at the foot of the bed, looking up at Sarge with a determined expression, occasionally pointing a finger out the door. Whatever she was saying, she was very cross about it.

Sarge huffed, gaze sidling to Hawke with a much put upon expression. “You heard her. Off the bed.”  
  
The mabari jumped down beside Islen and the girl fell backwards, landing softly on her cushioned bottom. Hawke stopped herself from running over to reach her and her daughter rewarded her with a proud grin as she used the bedpost to pull herself back upright.  
  
“Good job, pip.” Hawke bent over to remove the rectangular linen around her waist. “Why don’t we have a bath, hm?”  
  
Though Islen hated having her ears cleaned (for what reason Hawke had yet to suss out), she delighted in her baths, squealing when she popped a bubble or caused a ripple with her hand. They usually bathed together, in the small wooden tub, to save water, the girl pouring water from a cup onto her face in an imitation of her mother. She was able to get both chubby hands around the item, now, and lift it on her own, meaning more splashed water over the side for Hawke to clean after they were finished.  
  
This time, she chose to leave the mess for later, carrying Islen to the bed and flipping her onto her back. Hawke leaned forward over the bed, reaching for the girl’s linens. Islen stretched back to play with her hands. Hawke had often bent to blow a raspberry onto her daughter’s stomach, but Islen’s grip was such that her attempts to rip large chunks of Hawke’s hair out were succeeding more often than not, so she abstained. When the girl had dried enough for her linens, she stilled to allow Hawke to put the pins back on.  
  
“We’ll let you pick since it’s your name-day.” She muttered, balancing her on her hip and facing her towards the closet. “Point to the one you want. I swear, I won’t argue.”  
  
She let Islen’s growing tuft of black hair dry on the balcony. In the end, her daughter had ‘chosen’ two pairs of breeches, one grey, the other bright green. Hawke split the difference, pulling a grey tunic over the second choice. Below them, green seemed to spread everywhere. Islen shouted a string of nonsense at some of the young girls preparing for Summerday, easily identifiable by their long white gowns and the excited rush from stall to stall.  
  
“Ssssss,” Islen pressed her lips against the back of a hand and hissed.  
  
Hawke leaned against the balcony railing, pressing Islen back against her. “If you squirm, you’ll fall.”  
  
“Hawke?” She heard Orana behind her and turned to see only the elf’s head poking through the door. “Are you decent?”  
  
“Me?” Hawke replied archly. “Never. What do you need?”  
  
“Merrill’s here for,”  
  
“Aunt Merrill is here for the party!” The door banged against the wall as it opened fully and Merrill ducked under Orana’s arm to get into the room. “And for kisses!”  
  
“Ssisses.” Islen looked up at Hawke through her lashes.  
  
“Kisses.” Hawke corrected, mouth on automatic. “Party?” She directed at Merrill.  
  
The elf froze, arms halfway to Islen. “For Summerday?”  
  
“I didn’t think the Dalish celebrated.”  
  
“I asked her to come.” Orana spoke from behind her, laying a hand on Merrill’s shoulder. “To help me bake. In exchange for the lute lessons.”  
  
Hawke tried to school her expression into one that wasn’t complete shock. Merrill was helpful, truly, but a terror in the kitchen. “All right then,” she dumped Islen into Merrill’s waiting arms, allowing her to smother her _niece_ with kisses. “Thanks for the warning.”

* * *

“She can’t be speaking yet,” Aveline said, watching Islen toddle after Sarge to lay herself across the mabari’s hindquarters. He eventually grew frustrated with her weight, huffed and walked away, starting the process over again.

  
“I don’t think _atcha_ counts.” Fenris, Isabela, and Aveline had arrived within the hour and Hawke had moved to the floor, both to make room for the three newcomers and to keep Islen close at hand. “I think shes been trying butt and poot, too.”  
  
“Hawke!” Aveline’s mouth twitched before reluctantly curving up into a smile.  
  
“We're terrible influences.” Isabela flashed her a grin.  
  
“Don’t babies usually say mama?” Merrill said from the doorway to the kitchen.  
  
Hawke shrugged. “She says nana a lot. I figured it was Orana but maybe not.”  
  
Varric and Anders came with the ringing of the midday bells, and loaded down with annum sweets. Islen’s focus shifted from Sarge to Varric in an instant, using the mabari to lift herself and waddling over, falling halfway there.  
  
Varric rushed forward to catch her. "Opp, good try, kid."  
  
"She doesn't seem afraid of falling, thats good." Fenris nodded his thanks to Anders, who tossed him one of the sweeter snacks before Merrill could claim them.  
  
"I try not to run to her so much. It's a struggle."  
  
"She'll be walking sooner that way." Anders said, laying the rest of the sweets out on the table between the group.  
  
"Nahnahnah," Islen reached a hand over Varric's shoulder and Anders let her hold his finger for a moment. She made a grumpy noise low in her throat and the man startled.  
  
"Ah." He handed the girl a small red chew. "She's too observant."  
  
"Not too much. But she knows when there's a teeth rotter about. When Orana’s in the kitchen, there’s that little growth on her leg.” She stood, picking through the pile of candy and bread rolls. "Glad you could join us, _nana_."  
  
"What?"  
  
Walking to Varric and Islen, she clapped the man on the shoulder as she went. “Nothing. What else you got there?”  
  
“It’s a present.” The package he had brought with him had some heft but was obviously breakable if the way he gently set it down was any indicator.  
  
Her mind screamed _Present!_ , but she took care to exude an outwardly nonchalant appearance. “How thoughtful. You really _shouldn’t have_.” She finished with all the care of someone who meant _you really should_.  
  
“Shouldn’t?” Anders looked at Varric, perplexed. “It’s a party.”  
  
“I _may_ have implied gifts were to be expected.” Varric looked slightly guilty but recovered quickly when he noticed the slight twitch of Hawke’s hands. Damn her _greedy fingers_. “You didn't seem to be planning anything so I told the guys to bring presents, make snacks.”  
  
“For Summerday,” Hawke frowned faintly, “which we've never celebrated. Oh, I’m daft.” Varric nodded agreeably. “It’s for Islen. For her nameday.”  
  
“Surprise!” Merrill threw her arms in the air, then slowly lowered them upon noticing Orana and Isabela stifling their laughter. “Did I say it too soon?”  
  
Tamping down on her glee for the moment, she addressed the room as a whole. “She's only one, you know.”  
  
“You should celebrate every nameday, Hawke.” Aveline spoke with that bit of sorrow that accompanied whenever they talked about their lives before Kirkwall.  
  
“Besides,” Varric reassured her, “it’s a good excuse as any to get the gang together.”  
  
“Fair enough. As though you don’t spoil her enough.” She smiled easily, settling onto the floor again, her back against Sarge. He was just as annoyed with her laying on top of him but knew from experience that she could move quicker in a chase.  
  
The package from Anders was a lute, prompting another reminder from Hawke of her daughter’s age. The instrument was passed between Orana and Merrill until even Aveline had enough of the latter’s seeming tone-deafness. For her gift, Merrill had made a cloth wolf, held together with twine, which she assured Hawke would help protect Islen from Fen’Heral should she set it on her window. Isabela claimed to have already given enough to the beast and so offered a year of caretaking, as needed, to the one who bore her. Hawke hid her grin. This effectively assured her that her friend would stay in Kirkwall at least another year.   
  
Fenris gave her a simple letter, written in his own hand, without aid. There were a few sentences about the weather and a sad lack of knowledge in the area of his own nameday. She failed to swallow all of her emotions, biting hard on her bottom lip at a few lines. _I am glad you are safe._ and _You have a goode mother,_  were particularly unfair, she felt. Aveline spared her any embarrassment with a small, red tunic. Hawke was glad to see it, though the others ribbed the captain for lack of creativity or not buying a tiny dagger. Islen was growing too fast for Hawke’s liking.  
  
She stared across to where her daughter was more interested in some of the wrapping than the gifts themselves. She was so _big_ and when she smiled Hawke felt like she had never and could never love anything the way she loved her. She had to take great gulps of breath or she wouldn’t be able to hold it all in. As if sensing the attention, Islen turned to her and waved the paper around, showing off her prize.  
  
“All right Varric, you’re up.”  
  
“Yes, the time has come for you to use your finely honed skill of one upmanship.” Anders said primly.  
  
“Let’s see you beat a year of _free child care_.” Isabela challenged.  
  
“You mean that service I already provide?” Varric waved her off, “My present was the party.”  
  
“What a cop out!”  
  
“You told us we _all_ had to bring something, Varric.”  
  
“There’s the spirit of fairness to consider.”  
  
“Hawke owes me a little over two hundred sovereigns in ale, I don’t think fairness comes into it.”  
  
That made Hawke laugh a little.  
  
Red light poured across the streets at sunset when everyone left the Amell Estate to watch the fireworks in Hightown. The first pops went off just as the streetlights were lit and Islen stilled, blue eyes hilariously wide and turned towards the sky.  
  
“Here,” Varric tossed something small at her and she snatched it out of the air with her free hand on reflex. “Islen’s nameday gift.”  
  
“You didn’t just buy this from a vendor while my back was turned did you?” Hawke examined the item in her palm. A small, gold ring.  
  
“Give me some credit, please. It’s not really for her.” Varric admitted, giving her a sideways glance.  
  
Hawke held the ring aloft, a flash of gold under the explosions. “What is it?”  
  
“Gold, inlaid with lyrium. If anyone raises an eyebrow at her, just point to that.”  
  
“I can’t believe people make these.” She examined it before slipping it on the girl’s thumb.  
  
He shrugged. “It’s harmless in a container like that. I hear it’s all the rage in Orzammar.”  
  
“What do you care about Orzammar?”  
  
“What do you care about fireworks?” He looked at the sky and she looked around them. The idyllic picture of her friends, taking a break from the world’s affairs to enjoy their own lives, was something she didn’t get to see often. These were the moments she’d tell Islen about when she was older. The slow moments that, at some point, had begun to feel more unreal to her than fighting dragonlings.  
  
Islen reached for Varric, struggling in Hawke’s arms until she acquiesced to the girl’s demands. Well her arms _were_ tired. That Varric looked devastatingly handsome with Islen on his broad shoulders had almost _nothing_ to do with it. Besides, when didn’t he look handsome?  
  
And she let her thoughts stop at handsome. She _could_ have gone on to think how apt his appearance was, a sturdy frame for a dependable friend. She could, equally, have let her thoughts wander to the many times she had seen him shirtless, and during one very eventful game with Sarge, nearly disrobed.  
  
But she let her thoughts stop at _handsome_. As Isabela was _beautiful_ and Merrill was _adorable_ and Fenris was _complicated_. It was safer that way and, if her eyes lingered on his chest a little longer than was necessary, he never mentioned it.  
  
“Happy Summerday, Varric Tethras.”  
  
“Happy Summerday, Marian Hawke.”

* * *

Hawke watched Varric roll Bethany’s phylactery between his palms.

“Thrask got it out.” Anders explained, a slight tilt to his lips. “I hate to admit that he’s a decent sort but it’s been good having him on our side.”  
  
“I thought it’d be colder.” Varric commented, examining the blood against the light.  
  
“You’ve bled out before, Varric.” Hawke sounded detached, even to her own hearing. “Everything gets chilly, but the blood’s always warm.”  
  
_We should keep it here,_ she decided and shared the thought out loud. Her plan was met with almost immediate agreement. Apparently Anders hadn’t planned on letting her leave with it in the first place.

“So, what now?” Anders placed the phylactery in a sealed box, hidden from view.

An awkward silence fell in their corner of the clinic. Hawke kicked the dirt with a sigh.  
  
“I hate waiting.”

* * *

“I never pictured Isabela as the play house type. I’ve had to drag her out of too many unsavory situations.” Brennan protested over her hand.

“Point one, you can’t drag that helion out of any situation she doesn’t want to be torn away from.“ Merrill and Brennan sat across from Anders and Hawke, with Varric at the head of their table. The dwarf refused to look up from his cards as he spoke. “And point two, she offered to care for Islen, _whenever_ , for a year.”  
  
“I plan to take her up on that. Often.” Hawke picked at her teeth absently. Bodahn and Orana had spoiled her. She had forgotten how terrible the _food_ offered at the Hanged Man was.  
  
“It’s strange her picking a night with a baby over a night at the tavern, that’s all I’m saying.”  
  
“You said the same thing about Hawke last year.” Merrill slid a card from the top of the deck, adding it to her own hand.  
  
“I did not!” Brennan said. “Alright, I may have said something to that effect.”  
  
“She’s probably making sure Fenris isn’t too terrified of putting his own blood to bed.” Varric mused and Anders snorted softly.  
  
“Can you imagine him singing a little lullaby?” He placed his cards face-down on the table to let out a full laugh. “With that voice?”  
  
“Come now!” Merrill reached across to slap his hand. As someone with an equally offensive ear for music, she likely felt a sense of camaraderie, Hawke thought. “I’m sure he’d do a fine job. He’s probably very...efficient.”  
  
“Fenris is Islen’s father?” Brennan quiet confusion interrupted their frivolity. Four blank expressions turned to face her. “Sorry, I just thought,” the guard’s eyes shifted from Varric to Anders to Hawke, then to her lap, “nothing. Nevermind.”  
  
The table was silent for a moment. Hawke thought how best to respond but, luckily, motherhood came to her rescue again. Somewhat unluckily, she wasn’t the first to notice.  
  
“Hawke,” Merrill pointed at her chest. “You’re, well, you’re leaking.”  
  
“Bugger and tits.” Hawke cursed, holding out her shirt. “But look, it made a little griffon pattern, Merrill!”  
  
“Really?” Merrill tilted her head. “I see it!”  
  
"Go on, borrow one of mine,” Varric thumbed upstairs, " _again_."

"Merrill protect my cards with your life if you must." Hawke lay a hand on the woman’s head as she passed on her way to the stairs.

* * *

She tossed her shirt into a corner of the room that housed various toys Islen had left through the year. A dark purple tunic hung on the back of Varric’s desk chair. She tugged it over her head pulling the fabric up to her nose to smell the familiar soap and bow wax that covered all but Varric’s hands, which nearly always smelled of leather. The stench of piss and old ale permeated every inch of the Hanged Man, but Varric’s room smelled a little nicer.

 _All the old books._ She reasoned, bending over the desk to examine a page with a few poorly realised sketches on it. They were all variations of a mabari and on the back were hastily written notes; an outline for a new story about a talking mabari. _Must be writing it down for Islen._ She dimpled, tracing her fingers along the paper.

To the left of her hand, the words ‘red lyrium’ caught her eye. They were written on a half finished letter addressed to…

Oh. _Bianca_.

She put the letter back on the desk, with all the integrity of a Champion, stretched like a large jungle cat, and headed back downstairs.

And all this she did, in her mind, for in reality, she thought, _Well, there’s no reason I shouldn’t be included in the conversation,_ plainly ignoring that this was not, in fact, a conversation, _I am helping to fund this research, after all._

And she read.

“No headway but we’ve hired two more teams,” she shook her head, “thanks again for the container, it shouldn’t need repairs if you made it. Gee, Varric, I can really feel the love.”

She scanned lower on the page.

Her name popped up everywhere, naturally. Even Hawke knew she was Varric’s favorite character. Still there was a world of difference between hearing the form your story took on the street and seeing it written by the creator himself. She had been paired with words like beautiful and powerful often enough. The words written here were more personal. She was surprised to find them on the page at all let alone sent to a...whatever category Bianca was. Here, Hawke was _a wonder_ , _surprisingly gentle_ , and _captivating_ which she thought may have been another way for Varric to call her beautiful, but leave it to Varric to over-complicate the common tongue.

And of course he mentioned Islen. She felt that familiar surge of protectiveness but tamped down on it quickly. She supposed the little girl wasn't a secret anymore. There was no harm in letting her friends brag for her.

If Varric's letters were to be believed, Islen was a singular baby, without peer or flaw. She had inherited all of her parents best traits and, somewhere in the womb, had beaten back the bad ones.

Hawke strongly suspected authorial bias.

_Good news, Islen is something but she isn’t a mage._

She read the top of the second page twice, her breath catching, before she could process the words.

_Good news,_

Good news?

_Islen is something,_

“Hm.” Her mouth pursed with thought but her feet were on automatic, carrying her to the chest beside his bed. She picked it open as she had many times before. Varric’s supposedly _secret mead_ , spare gloves, bow gears, and there it was. What she was looking for lay in the corner held together with red twine; a stack of letters. Rough drafts thoroughly vetted before he would send.

Checking the dates in the corner she flipped through the more recent ones.

“No, no, no, Varric, please,” she muttered, heart beating wildly in her throat, “you’re _smart_. Why...?”

More and more, the sentences on the pages jumped out at her. _The Champion’s mage child, by that broody elf I told you about,_ she thumbed forward another page, _More worried about the magic when the child is born. We’ve been looking into different avenues of protection, but so far hiding seems like our best bet. Besides, dwarves and magic. You can’t see me, but I’m shuddering._

“Why?” She repeated slowly, tasting the word.

“Hawke, we’ve skipped you twice, what are you,” Varric’s laughing voice stopped as his eyes fell on her. “Snooping’s a bad habit, you know.” She turned, letters in her hands.

"What are these?"

Varric seemed to weigh his options, _Downstairs, Letters, Hawke,_ before closing the door. “Letters to Bianca. Usually kept in a locked coffer to denote privacy but I see that you’re above all that.”

“What do they say?” Hawke said distantly.

Varric frowned.

“I’m assuming you’ve read them.” He responded, dryly.

“I want you to _tell me_ what they say.”

Varric leaned against the door with a thud. “Stories about the gang, you, specifically,” he mused, expression pinched with annoyance, “There’s some stuff about Islen, too.”

“Some _stuff_ ,” she laughed, with no humour at all, “Some of these dates. I thought we were hiding my pregnancy. You _boasted_ about using your network to keep us safe,”

“I wouldn’t say call myself boastful about it but,”

“And you’ve been writing to a _stranger_ about us. About her.”

“Bianca is not a stranger, Hawke. I _told_ you I was writing to someone about the lyrium.” Varric’s shoulders tensed in obvious defense, but his tone projected its usual calm. “She’s _helping_ us, she’s helping _you_! Bethany’s phylactery would still be in the Circle,”

“ _She_ didn’t risk her neck getting it out.” Hawke motioned between them. “We’re the ones at risk, here. Who we bought our tools from won’t matter!”

“You think she wouldn’t be in just as much trouble if we were caught? If they found out who _made_ that? _Tools_ , you call them,” He muttered.

“This isn’t about Bianca or the machine.” she held her head, palms blocking out the light. Varric was quiet for so long she thought he may have left until she felt a hand pull her own away. He knelt in front of her. This close, Hawke was staring almost directly at his mouth, which was compressed into a frown.

“I know.” He rubbed the back of his head, seeming to have settled. “Lay it on me, I deserve it,” He chuckled. “I screwed up.”

“I don’t want to yell at you, Varric.” Hawke shook her head, pushing herself up to her feet. “I want to go home.”

“I’m pretty sure yelling at me will make you feel better.” He sounded a little desperate. 

“I won’t feel better until I see my daughter.”

“Of course.” She felt Varric's eyes on her as she walked out into the hall, "Sorry, Hawke.”

She brushed past an almost dozing Merrill, away from a concerned Anders and onto the streets of Lowtown. The house was already asleep when she arrived home and so, of course, Islen was wide awake, gumming happily on a foot. Sarge, who tended to migrate to the little girl’s room at night, sat up and barked low in his throat, nudging at her leg until she bent down to scratch behind his ear. Mother and daughter smiled at one another as she lifted her out of the crib and carried her downstairs to the fire, its embers light and warm. The mabari padded down behind them and lay with his head on his paws, staring at her, far too knowingly.

It was only after she had settled across the couch, Islen low on her chest and bubbling in some foreign baby language, that she realised she still wore Varric’s shirt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for all the feedback I've received! This has been so fun to write and I'm so happy to see people getting some enjoyment from it.
> 
> Thanks, once again, to kazzashepard for the betaread!

_9:36 Dragon_

Bodahn was the first up in the morning, “Ah, messere, you’re awake. A letter arrived,” The dwarf stopped speaking, noticing Islen dozing on Hawke’s stomach.

“It’s okay, she ate an hour ago. She should sleep for a while.” Hawke sat, placing her feet on the floor, and pulled out the blanket tucked beneath her. Wrapping it under her daughter she fashioned it into a sort of nest.

“If we’re lucky.” Bodahn chuckled but she was sure he was only half joking. Generally it was _his_ supplies that were in danger from the sixteen-month-old who insisted on walking everywhere when she was awake. “Long night, was it?”

Hawke tried to rub the dryness from her eyes. Islen had been quiet all night and Hawke desperately willed her brain to match the child’s calm. As it was, she stayed awake, thoughts turning over in her head. This wasn't her first fight with Varric or even their worst fight. The biggest fight they had ever had was after the Deep Roads and Bethany. Varric had urged her to stop helping Gamlen, she had called him a hypocrite after the mess with Bartrand and things had somewhat spiraled after that. Harsh words were thrown. The piss ale at the Hanged Man hadn't helped.

They didn’t speak for at least a week after and the next time Varric showed up, because Varric always showed up, it was with the most contrite expression she had ever seen on the dwarf and the first share of her cut from the expedition. At the time, they were both mad at themselves and yelling at each other seemed less pointless than yelling at a mirror, so they forgave one another easily enough.

So, this wasn't _that_ fight, but it was their first after Islen and after she...

She wasn’t angry, now. She just felt sad and a little empty, like she had cried too much. She trusted Varric more than herself, but Bianca was a grey area in her mind. She didn’t know her from any other dwarf on the street. She knew a part of her reaction stemmed from jealousy, she was self-aware enough to admit that. But beyond that spark of irrational jealousy for a woman she didn’t know and a relationship that wasn't, lay the very real concern that Varric had done something _thoughtless_. Varric, who had smuggled Bethany’s letters and made her use codes. Varric, weeding out trouble before it could get to his friends, effectively keeping Merrill and Anders from many cold nights in jail. Varric, who was _many_ things and none of those thoughtless. Why did he keep the drafts? Materials for his story? Sentiment?

“Baby?” Sandal held out a breakfast roll and Hawke sat up to happily take the nearly-warm dough and give the dwarf her space beside Islen’s makeshift bed. Sandal was no better at cooking than he had been when he arrived, but he was very good at watching Islen.

Hawke’s writing table was piled with letters. Though they were mostly thank you’s and party invites, she had not the patience for either. The one on top bore the wax seal of the Circle. She heaved a great sigh, tearing into her breakfast with one hand and into the letter with the other.

 _Champion Hawke,_  
_It took great courage for you to speak openly against our Knight-Commander. You have my support in any actions you take. I hope I have yours as well, for there is a situation in the Circle I was hoping you could assist me with. Please meet me at the Gallows. Meredith has confined my mages to their cells and forbade me from traveling further than the Courtyard. I appreciate your service and discretion._  
_Sincerely,_  
_First Enchanter Orsino_

“Huh.” The picture of Bethany’s phylactery flashed in her mind, but she quickly dismissed it. They hadn’t heard anything for weeks and, surely, if something had been found, she would be the first suspect. Orsino would have told Elthina or Meredith and Hawke would be brought to the Chantry.

 _Those two didn’t look very friendly,_ she remembered the confrontation in the courtyard and sighed dramatically, _I hate politics._

She stared out the window. It was barely light. Varric would normally be up at this hour, or rather still awake from the previous night.

She bit her lip.

“Sandal, Islen will need to eat soon. Oats and fruit, got it? _No. Enchanting._ ”

“Leaving again, messere?” Bodahn called as she walked past.

“I’m going to find Isabela.” She announced, and pulled the door closed behind her.

* * *

Isabela was sleeping on an empty bottle of wine and a deck of cards, drooling on Fenris’ arm, when Hawke broke into the elf’s room. To his credit, he _had_ gotten locks. They just weren't very _good_ locks. She shook the bed and made cat noises but, convinced that a visit to the First Enchanter did not qualify as an emergency, a very naked Isabela could not be pressed to move. Fenris was up almost immediately, though the woman tried to pull both of them back onto the bed with her. After successfully detangling themselves from the drowsy pirate, Fenris and Hawke made their way to the Gallows.

Orsino was equal parts surprised and distressed at their arrival. “I know some of my people are using dangerous means to oppose Meredith, but I cannot seek the templars’ aid without making every mage a target.”

“What are they doing?” Fenris narrowed his eyes.

Orsino looked shame-faced, turning his body away in a telling motion. “All I know is that numerous mages have left the Circle at night, sometimes for days at a time. I’d rather not follow our Knight-Commander by leaping to the worst conclusion but the idea of blood magic has crossed my mind.”

“First Enchanter Orsino,” Hawke straightened, doing a fair impression of Isabela when Sarge tried to jump on her, “these are your charges. By letting yourself stay in the dark about this for so long, you are placing them in danger,” she allowed a hint of emotion to slip into her voice and had to work hard to ignore the look Fenris was giving her. “you are placing _my sister_ in danger. Why come to me with _your_ responsibility?" This much, at least was true. When they had taken Bethany, they had effectively stripped Hawke of her responsibility. Whatever happened to Bethany now, was on their heads. "Why not follow them, yourself?" She suggested. "Confront them, without the templars, if things are out of hand. "

"Meredith watches me closely. Whatever method they use to escape will not work for the likes of me." He sighed. "Even should I discover something, I dare not go myself, lest Meredith use it as proof of my involvement. Being the Champion puts you in a distinctly unique position. You are trusted among the people of Kirkwall. And _I_ trust you to handle this with aplomb."

She watched the robed man in front of her closely. Extracting information from a target was not her forte. Usually she only had to wait for them to finish a monologue and, by that point, the important bits had floated to the top. That and random slips of paper with notes on them. Thugs were always leaving those around in convenient places.

He fidgeted under her gaze. “If it is your sister you fear for, she is in no danger, Champion. I, well, civilians are not supposed to know about this, but certain individuals such as Bethany and myself, have specific restrictions placed upon our persons.” He said dismally, “We would not be able to leave, should we ever choose such a path.”

"I’ll look into this.”

“I’ve heard rumors of a meeting, tonight, in Hightown. Do not involve yourself unless absolutely necessary. I pray this is nothing. Meredith will have all she needs to invoke the right of annulment.”

* * *

“While I find your caution admirable, the sudden change of character is concerning.” Fenris commented when they were safely out of hearing range. “Why did you push so hard?”

“Bethany’s phylactery is no longer in the Circle.” She said simply and Fenris had to jog to catch up from where he fell behind her. “I already know he’s too scared to go to Meredith about something that big. Now I have some pretty good insurance that he’s worried about pissing me off, too, particularly when it comes to _my sister_.”

“This is a dangerous game, Hawke.” Fenris said warningly.

“If mages are sneaking out, I need to know how. Besides, I wouldn’t call what I’ve done until now _playing it safe_.” She insisted. “I’ve been hearing whispers about a Templar uprising from every corner of Kirkwall, the Chantry is cheating the lyrium trade, and suddenly everyone in power wants to be my best friend. That doesn’t seem a little fishy to you?”

“You’re the Champion,” Fenris reasoned, “your opinion holds as much influence as any.”

“I’m also a very convenient scapegoat if something goes wrong.” Hawke chuckled humorlessly. “The best way to play this is pretend to know nothing for as long as possible. Orsino and Meredith think they can play me against each other? That’s fine. But there’s no reason we can’t do the same.”

“I trust you, friend.” Fenris sighed. “Much as it pains me sometimes.” His mouth lifted in an approximation of a smile. “And if the end goal is to have Bethany reunited with her family, I find that acceptable.”

Hawke laughed grimly. “What little’s left of us.”

“From my count, there are many who would be honored to call a Hawke their kin.”

She tilted her head, silent for a moment before punching him on the shoulder and matching him smile for smile. “Shut up.”

* * *

Hawke stuck to the shadow of a crate, watching a templar and mage exchange hushed whispers. Fenris and Isabela, who she had sent ahead to the docks after an incredibly uneventful meeting in Hightown, were hidden somewhere nearby. When she saw the door close behind the second man and Fenris step forward on silent feet, Hawke made her own presence known.

“I told you we were being followed!” The mage shouted before taking off around a corner.

The templar looked between Hawke and the direction the mage had gone, shaking his head. He backed towards the door and directly into Fenris just as Isabela appeared, her arm slung around the mage with a lazy air that betrayed her skilled nature. "It's good having you in the field again, Hawke. Even if all you do is look imposing."

Hawke grinned. Fenris shoved the man at her by the collar.

“If I knew _you_ were the one they were talking about, I’d have warned you.” He swallowed. “I don’t hold with kidnapping, not after what I went through.”

Hawke crossed her arms, looking unimpressed. “Didn’t I save your life?”

“You did. Believe me, I still dream about those blood mages. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” Well at least he sounded sincere. “I’d never have let them kidnap anyone I knew was one of yours.”

A cold stab of fear ran through her. “What are you talking about?”

“There was a rumor that someone was spying, we would need leverage,” he shook his head, “someone they cared about, as a hostage. We just got word they pulled some girl from the Circle. A...sister, I think.”

“You cowards couldn’t fight me yourself?” Hawke took a quick step towards him, curved blades drawn quicker than a blink. He jerked in response, “You took _Bethany_? Why would you take my sister?”

“More specifically, how?” Fenris crossed his arms, levelling his gaze at the back of the man’s neck.

“I, I don’t know. I’m not a part of that team. I stay outside, pass information between the Circle and the Underground. ” He admitted. “I do know we weren’t going to hurt her. Just make sure you left us alone, do you understand?”

She lowered her blades, taking in deep breaths through her nose. _Information._

“Keran, right?” She hoped her voice sounded level. “You’re the last person I’d expect to join a conspiracy of apostate mages.”

“We are not apostates!” The mage struggled under Isabela’s tight grip and she whispered a few words to still him.

“He’s right.” Keran nodded, looking more sure of himself as Hawke held her fists tightly to her sides. “They _want_ the Circle. They want it to work like it’s supposed to. To protect them. The mages aren’t the problem, Meredith is.”

“All of this, sneaking out mages, kidnappings, secret meetings,” Hawke looked around the dingy warehouse, “is to oust the Knight-Commander?”

“We need a real Viscount and templars who protect mages, not massacre them.” Keran paced the space in front of Fenris. “Meredith has to go. That’s what Thrask says. Without her, we have a chance at peace.”

“Thrask?”

_“Thrask got it out.”_

“Do you mean the templar, Thrask?” She stashed her blades and, mind whirring with ideas. “Is he the one running this conspiracy?”

“You’ve worked with him, he’s a good man! He showed us Meredith wasn’t the only way.” Keran’s mouth twitched as though he wanted to smile. “You should help us, not fight us. All we want is someone sane in Meredith’s place. What are you going to do to Thrask? To me?”

Hawke stared past his shoulder to look at Fenris. The elf moved around Keran to bow his head in quiet discussion. “Orsino was right about the cause, a rebellion against Meredith, but not the source.”

Hawke let out a quiet laugh. “I’ve seen templars helping mages, but this is a whole new level.”

_Wow, Meredith, people really hate you._

“They may think they’re helping,” Fenris shook his head, “who knows what kind of damage they’re really doing?”

“All I know is they have Bethany,” she blinked, “they _have_ Bethany.”

 _“Once her vial is out, we’ll have all the time in the world for a plan. You’ll think of something.”_ Varric’s voice echoed in her head.

“Hawke?”

_"I’m not worried. You'll pull it off, Hawke. You always do."_

“Bethany’s out.” Hawke replied distantly.

The realisation played across Fenris’ face, but whatever he thought, he kept to himself for the moment, saying instead, “Where is the vial?”

“Anders has it. He’ll know what to do.” He turned away before she finished speaking, clapping a hand on Isabela’s arm before disappearing in the direction of Darktown.

“Isabela,” Hawke snapped back into action. She turned the other woman who had loosened her grip on the mage sometime ago and was now looking at her, concerned. “Are you still in contact with that elf? The stabby one?”

“Zevran? He’s in the area. Why?” She leaned forward. “What do you have up your sleeve?”

“I think we can get Bethany out of the Free Marches.” Hawke let a smile steal across her face. “If I play this right, I may need his help.”

“Sounds dangerous.” Isabela wriggled her eyebrows.

“More dangerous than insulting Aveline’s men, but less dangerous than stealing a holy relic.”

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” She rolled her eyes. “Oh well, let’s make life difficult for someone, shall we?”

Hawke felt her heart beat a giddy rhythm in her throat. Before she could focus on getting her sister away from Kirkwall, she would have to ensure she was _alive_. Keran had said Bethany was safe, but that was no guarantee.

Still, she was _out_.

She cocked her head at the templar. “Where are they?”

“They left for the ruins on the Wounded Coast. We have a kind of base there.”

“Isabela, you contact Zevran, tell him to wait for further instructions and remind him gently that he owes me.” She commanded. “I’ll grab Merrill and meet you at the coast.”

Keran blinked owlishly. “Are you, are we...?”

“Yes, you two can go. Never let it be said that I’m not a _reasonable_ person. ” She turned away, keeping her voice low and dangerous. “But if I find that Bethany’s been hurt, we’ll see how far that reason stretches.”

She walked a quick pace to Lowtown, toward the alienage. She felt lightheaded at how close her sister’s freedom seemed, but an image of Bethany lying, as her mother did, prone and gray, kept her level-headed. She detoured to the Hanged Man.

* * *

Varric shot up from his desk when she entered, unannounced. She took in the stubble and the creases in his shirt. It was obvious he hadn’t slept either, though he seemed to have made the attempt, bedsheets crumpled and one of Islen’s toys laying on a pillow. She let these thoughts pass over her. They would talk. It would wait.

“Come on.”

“Hawke, wha,” Varric rounded the desk to meet her but she was already walking back out, calling over her shoulder.

“Bethany’s in trouble."

And that was apparently all Varric needed to hear. Duster on, Bianca slung across his back and he was at her side like smoke.

She stopped herself outside the Hanged Man watching Varric slow and double back, concern and impatience warring on his face.

 _It can wait, it’ll keep, I’ll do this later_. She had been thinking that a lot, lately. Varric drew back a little as she bore down on him. 

“There’s no time so you just have to believe me when I say there isn’t a universe in which I don’t trust you, got it?” It came out growly and angry and probably not at all believable, but Varric nodded mutely so she nodded back and took it for acceptance. “Good. We’ll sort out the rest later.”

And they were off.

* * *

 She was relieved to see Bethany breathing softly, if a little uncomfortable on the hard ground of the Wounded Coast.

Her relief vanished at the sight of Decimus’ pupils and several more armed guard.

“Sorry I’m late for the reunion, my invitation must have gotten lost.” Hawke stepped out of the brush, blades drawn and voice sickly sweet. “If you let my sister go, I promise I’ll still tell everyone yours was the best kidnapping in town.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope that you wouldn’t have come here.” A man in templar armor stepped out from behind the rocks. _Damn the Wounded Coast._ She thought viciously.

Hawke swung her gaze to the new player then slowly lowered her arms. “Thrask. I understand I never officially thanked you for retrieving my sister’s phylactery, but I have to say this is a hell of a way to get my attention.”

“We had no intention of drawing you out this way,” he admitted, “we wished to bring you Bethany as a peace offering when we were more prepared.”

“What is the meaning of this, Thrask?” Hawke watched the mage beside Thrask whip her head to look at him. The air seemed to crackle around her movements. Hawke remembered her now. _Grace_ , she thought absently. She should have been far from Kirkwall by now. “The girl is _our hostage_.”

“Hostages are only hostages until they have served their usefulness.” Thrask explained and the woman balked. “This is her purpose.”

“I’ll ignore the fact that you’re treating her like a piece of cattle.” Hawke growled low in her throat. “Continue. Cautiously.”

“You wanted her out, I got her out.” He explained. “Not an easy task, mind you.”

“Thanks for the favor, but I have to interject here.” Varric didn’t lower Bianca an inch to speak, though he did shift its aim to Grace. “ _Why_ did you get Sunshine out for us?”

“Good point.” Isabela crossed her arms, right foot inched slightly forward. Hawke drew her daggers back to waist height. She had been out of the game too long.

“Call it a payment in good faith.” Thrask bowed his head. “I need your help, Champion.”

“There it is.” Hawke nodded. “You know, I get that a lot, but there’s been a bit of a _theme_ lately. Let me guess, Meredith?”

“She must be ousted from power if Kirkwall is to have peace again. You showed me we can stand up to her. When I realised you had risked your life lying to protect these mages. Please, Champion, I have nothing but respect for you. It's Meredith we must see gone.”

Hawke let her gaze linger on Bethany’s half-lidded stare. “I am no fan of Meredith’s, but your methods need improvement. You know, it wasn’t even _she_ who sent me here?” Her smile was razor sharp. “Next time, send a letter, hm?”

That seemed to give Thrask pause as he stared between the mages and Hawke’s group. “You will work with us?”

“ _With_ you is a strong sentiment.” Hawke narrowed her eyes. “We have a common goal. And, as horrendously as you went about it, I appreciate what you’ve done for my family.”

“I should have known you recognize the threat Meredith poses. I am sorry for any distress we caused you or your friends.” Thrask moved aside. “It will be good to work more openly with the Champion’s support. Take your sister.”

“No.” Grace stood where Thrask had been. “This wasn’t what was promised when I joined you, Templar.”

“Stand down, Grace.” Thrask held up a steady hand. “We will not kill an innocent to achieve our ends. It gains us nothing to become Meredith.”

“I don’t know.” Hawke replied, grip tightening. “I’m curious about what she was promised.”

“Meredith,” she scoffed, “what do I care for Meredith? I'm here for the Champion.”

 _The more things change._ Had she had time, Hawke would have laughed.

Merrill took a step forward. “Grace. Do you really want to do this,” she asked, voice soft and pleading, “after everything we've done for you?”

“Done for me?” Grace laughed viciously. “You killed the best man I ever met! You set me to the wild, alone, and when the Circle caught me again, you did _nothing_.” Grace looked to the boy standing over her sister. “So tell me, what has the Champion done for me? What does the _Champion_ care for mages outside of her little circle? Alain, kill the hostage.”

Alain’s fists tightened at his sides. “This isn't right. They tried to help us!”

“Decimus was _right_ , Alain.” Grace looked between them, stricken. “There is no way we mages can live by the Chantry’s law! He was _right_ and he _died_ for it!”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Alain shook his head. “But what _message_ will killing her sister send? You’re just angry!”

She looked from Bethany to Alain and, finally, to Hawke. Her features hardened. “If you're too squeamish, I'll do it myself.”

“No.” Thrask grabbed her wrist, staring into her face.”No one has to die here.”

“Thrask, don’t--!”

“You must think me a fool.” Grace laughed over Hawke’s protest. “Wasn’t it you who told me to stay, Thrask? Who told me that this was my only chance to get close to the Champion?”

Blood. Blinding light in the pitch black. The twang of an arrow to her right. When the dust settled, Thrask was on the ground and Grace was an abomination.

 _Then_ all hell broke loose.

It was what Hawke would later call her ‘first time back in action’, and her body realised it, immediately. Spells sang through the air, and an archer aimed for Merrill’s throat while she and Isabela danced, back to back. Hawke lept forward to block the first arrow with a vambrace but the second landed somewhere in her side. She tossed a dagger and it hit its target between the eyes. _Never too out of practice._ She thought with some satisfaction.

Ducking behind a rock, she saw that the arrow was wedged deep between two of her ribs. She broke it in half and threw enough tincture on it to keep infection at bay. She’d let Anders deal with the rest. Pulling her knife from the man’s skull, she dove back into the fray.

Dark blood flew from the edge of her knife, her ribs were on fire and a thigh muscle tore. But her adrenaline soared, carrying her through the worst of it, hollering, Varric on her right (always to her right).

Eventually, only Alain remained, kneeling in front of Bethany.

“Poor sod.” Isabela toed Thrask’s hand with her foot before bending down to loot his pockets.

Hawke shook her head. “You heard Grace. He _used_ her. Told her if she just went along with whatever he was planning, I was the prize at the bottom of the box.” She reached into her pouch for Varric’s handkerchief, hers now, and wiped across her brow. “Another person who wanted me to hold back the political dogs.”

“At least he admitted it.” Isabela shrugged, coming up with a satchel full of gold and a cloth helmet that Hawke swiped immediately. “Though, I don’t feel so bad taking these now. He was a terrible judge of character.” She looked at the abomination that was Grace. “You think a templar would know not to break a deal with a blood mage.”

“He got arrogant, trusted his training, ” Hawke pulled the hood over her head. “That’s what happens when you don’t spend any time with mages outside of the Circle. I wonder what they tell people like him to explain people like Bethany.”

“You okay, kid?” Varric leaned on Bianca, placing a steadying hand on Alain’s shoulder.

“I knew Grace had been brought back to the Circle, but I didn’t know she was working with Thrask.” Alain admitted mournfully. “She was so _different_.”

Hawke bit her lip, choosing to focus on her sister instead. “Why is she still asleep?” She kept a tight reign on her panic, watching Bethany breathe in slow, long breaths.

“Grace used blood magic to put her under.” He explained. “I’ll have to use blood magic to wake her.”

“Don’t.” She grabbed his arm before he could draw his knife. “I don’t want the Circle having anything they can use on you. Merrill? Can you?”

Merrill jumped a little at the sound of her name. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.” Hawke growled. “Quickly.”

Merrill kneeled on the other side of Bethany, a focused look above Alain’s shoulder. Malcolm hadn’t taught Bethany much about blood magic and he had taught _her_ even less. Mostly he had told them to avoid it. Blood magic meant maleficarum meant templars meant being one step closer to the Chantry’s ever watchful gaze. Someone had used it to kill her mother, she fought it, often, and made use of it, on occasion. On interesting days, like today, she did both.

The elf slumped and Varric pulled her out of the way as Bethany stirred. “Marian?” She blinked into awareness with a smile as wide as her eyes.

“And here you thought the nightmare couldn’t get any worse.” Hawke helped her up and wrapped her into a hug, holding her sister’s face to her neck and speaking into her hair. “Are you all right?”

“A little woozy,” Bethany managed to get her arms around her and squeeze her shoulders tightly, “better, now.”

Hawke held her at arm’s length. “I promise, I’ll never let anything like this happen to you again.”

“Thank you,” Bethany’s smile was watery, “it’s good to know you’re still looking out for me.”

“Templars, just over the hill.” Isabela hissed. Hawke let Bethany greet the others, examining the approaching men through narrowed eyes.

“Friends of ours?” She asked Alain. The boy shook his head and she shot Varric a harried look. “Fenris is taking care of the phylactery but none of that’ll matter if they find her here.”

“Daisy, Rivaini, and me will lead them North.” Varric lifted Bianca and motioned further down the coast. “You take the mages that way.”

“No,” Alain stood, a little unsteady at first, “take your sister and go.”

“We don’t have time for this.” Varric replied warningly.

“It’ll be more convincing if they find you with me.” He stared at his feet, blinking hard. Hawke could see he was afraid and determined to go, despite it. He placed a hand on each of the siblings shoulders for a brief moment, “Good luck,” and tore off, Isabela and Merrill following quickly after.

Bethany wrapped Varric in a tight hug and Hawke used the moment to position a bit of cloth over her wound, using the sticky tincture and shifting a belt to hold it in place. “I’ll see you soon, right?”

“Of course, Sunshine.” And suddenly their moment was over and Varric’s voice was much closer as Hawke was crowded against a rock and pulled into her own dwarf-sized hug. “Don’t think I don’t see you holding your side. You get her away and you get back here, _quickly_ , yes?”

She was a fool to think someone, especially someone as keenly interested in her welfare as Varric, wouldn’t notice her wound.

"It's...I'll be back soon," she said into Varric’s neck, striving for casual but coming closer to pitiful.

Varric was breathing in small puffs against her collarbone and she was watching Bethany tear off the bottom of her robes, choosing to concentrate on her sister’s movements rather than the rapidly spreading heat on her face. Then Varric brushed his lips across the skin of her throat. A small, but unmistakable, kiss at the base of her neck.

"Damn right," before Hawke had a chance to process their strange exchange, Varric pushed her towards Bethany, fingers digging into her hips. Hawke jolted at the sudden lack of contact, the brush of fabric on her open wound and forced herself to turn away.

“We’ll draw them off.” Varric called over his shoulder. Hawke grabbed Bethany’s sleeve, cloaking them, and dragged her down the moonlit beach.

When they were out of sight, whatever survival instinct Bethany was running on seemed to wear off and she fell to her knees. Undeterred, Hawke lifted her by the shoulders, ignoring the burning pain in her side, and let her limp beside her until the other woman seemed to get the idea and ran.

Only when they had run far enough for the hill to be a small dot did she slow her pace, bending over to catch her breath.

“Sister, you’re wounded.” Bethany was at her side nearly dragging her to the ground.

“It’s nothing.” She sprawled her legs out into a more comfortable position and lifted her shirt to remove the sticky, red cloth.

“Stop that.” Bethany batted her hands away. “A tincture won’t protect that from your grubby fingernails.” Her voice was a shrill imitation of their mother’s and Hawke chortled softly. “Some of the mages in the Circle have taught me Creation magic.”

“Really?” Hawke opened one eye to watch the light blue glow emanate from her sister’s palms. The pain in her side receded, though it didn’t disappear entirely.

“Yes,” Bethany’s eyebrows knitted together in concentration, “well, they let me watch them. We’re only allowed to perform magic for certain, Chantry-approved tasks.”

“Sounds incredibly dull.”

“It’s fine.” Bethany pulled back and lied through her teeth, smiling wide. “ _I’m_ fine. Really, Marian. We should go back before they notice I’m gone.”

“They’ve really got you scared, huh?” Hawke pushed back Bethany’s bangs to feel her forehead, a comforting gesture she learned from their mother and often found herself practicing on Islen. “I’ve heard about the abuses, the push for more Tranquil. I’m not letting you go back there, Bethany.”

For a moment, it seemed as though she may protest, looking back the way they had come, but when she turned back her gaze was steely. _There she is._ Hawke thought, triumphant.

“Then what do I do?”

“I had your phylactery taken from the Circle weeks ago. That was the really hard part.” She laughed. “Sarge will bring it to you, tonight, if Fenris got word to Anders. Then, you’re free to go wherever you want.”

“Wherever I want?” Bethany looked a little overwhelmed. Hawke didn’t blame her.

“I have a contact, Zevran.” She explained, pulling her shirt back down with a wince. Bethany was no Anders. “He’s supposed to meet you on the edge of the Vimmark Mountains. He’s all right for an Antivan, and he owes me one. Isabela says he’s a friend of the Warden’s so you can trust him to take you as far as Tantervale, at least, and you can lay low for a while there.”

“What’s in Tantervale?”

“Our cousin, Charade,” Hawke held up a hand, laughing a little, “it’s a long story. Just trust me, she’s got a decent set up, there.” She removed her coin purse and tossed it to Bethany. “You’ll want to take the river to Wycome when you feel safe and use _that_ for a ship. You can go back to Ferelden, but if you want my suggestion, don’t stop until you reach Orlais.”

“Why there?” Bethany tucked the pouch snug between her arm and breast.

“I have it on good authority that some very nice dwarves will be migrating that way soon.”

They were silent for a moment. “They’re going to know it was you.”

“They might.” Hawke admitted. “I planned this very well,” she thought about this, “somewhat well. Alright I’ll admit you falling into my lap was just a happy accident, but you let me worry about me.” She couldn’t believe this was working. “Oh, yes here!” She fished out a picture of Islen, holding it under a shaft of moonlight until her face came into view.

“She’s beautiful, Marian.” Bethany examined the picture. "She has mother's eyes. I wish I had gotten to meet her.”

“Now you will.” She beamed and Bethany smiled back, tears welling in her eyes.

“I’m so happy”, she said, "so happy she’s normal.”

“Hey,” Hawke panicked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “hey, stop that. No one’s normal. What’s normal, yeah? Normal’s boring.”

Bethany laughed wetly.”It’s going to be strange.”

 _Scary_ Hawke supplied and wondered if moving her from the Circle to Orlais was a different kind of imprisonment. She remembered the years of hiding and the comfort in at least having one another.

“Still, exciting though.” Bethany said, hopefully. “And I can write letters without a stupid code. We can finally gossip like normal.”

“Leave it to you to think of the important things.” She pulled her sister closer, pushing her knuckles into her hair and soaking up her laugh. They wouldn’t have much time here, but she would enjoy what she had.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with the Bianca story since, well, I don't know the details and, to be honest I don't think Varric would want to tell them all. So, for the purposes of this story I’ve kept it vague.

_9:36 Dragon_

She had offered to take Bethany as far as the edge of the woods, before turning to retrace her steps. The walk back was quiet, punctuated by the loud crash of waves and Hawke's curse every time another pebble got stuck in the toe of her boot.

Her sister had praised her. Aveline would be secretly pleased. Her mother, she thought, would hold her tight and weep at Bethany’s freedom by her daughter’s very cunning, thoughtful plan.

But Hawke rotated her recently bloodied knife between her palms and considered herself worthy of none of it. She thought only about how very little she had thought this part through. Bethany would be alone, in Orlais, More alone than Hawke ever had been, and that worried her. She remembered the letter from Ella, her casual mention of Bethany. Had Bethany made friends in the Circle? Of course she had. No Hawke could be around people and not leave an impression.

Their father had always taught them to help mages when they could, but with faces and names to go along with the horror stories, how long before Bethany became the Justice of Orlais?

The sun was just breaking over the coastline as the hill of their battle came into view. She could feel someone watching her. Varric cast a surprisingly long shadow over the dunes of the coast. She lifted a hand to wave him down, sitting on one of the weather-beaten rocks, and he walked over to meet her.

"Isabela convinced the Knight-Captain we were chasing down Grace." Varric said as a greeting. “They've bought us some time but not much."

“How did they know to come looking for us?” She squinted up at him, the sun casting a light over his shoulders.

“Ex-templar looking to cash in on some runaway mages.” he knelt beside her and lifted her shirt to examine the wound there. “Shit, Hawke, you did a number on this.”

“Bethany tried to do something,” she hissed, shaking her head, “magic stuff. Didn't take, she’s rubbish at it. Is the templar a loose end?”

“Lyrium junkie. He didn't see Bethany and, so far, Cullen hasn’t asked after her. They probably don’t know she’s gone yet. If this keeps going so smoothly, they won’t know where to look when they do realise it.” He turned his concerned gaze toward her. “I should have sent for Blondie. This is gonna sting."

Her vision swam with pain as Varric dug into her side. She felt him place a hand on her hip in a silent apology before she passed out.

It couldn't have been more than a few moments, for when she came to Varric was still holding the arrowhead and wrapping a new piece of cloth over her side. She groaned and turned to catch her breath.

“Was that _poisoned_?” She used some of the water from her hip flask to rinse the taste of sea salt from her mouth, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

“No, you just haven’t been training like you should.” Varric replied archly.  
  
She snorted. “You _never_ train.”

“I don’t need to train. I have Bianca.” He stilled at the name, patting the bow on his back rather more awkwardly than usual before standing. “Don’t scratch those.”

“I don’t...okay.” Hawke stood shakily and concentrated on walking. One foot, then the other. “Varric, you kissed me.”

“Don’t talk, either.” He called over his shoulder, slowing to match her speed. “You’ll pull something.”

“Okay.” They trudged up the hills of the Wounded Coast in silence. More than once, she caught him staring out of the corner of his eye, as though checking she was still there. “Varric,”

“I said don’t talk,” he let out an aggrieved sigh. The wind had turned his cheeks a dark red and, though he turned to face her, he held his gaze to the ground, “at least until Blondie takes a look at you.”

“Yeah, all right, but I've lost a lot of blood, probably, so I forget the little things,” she touched his lips, “but you _did_ kiss me, right?”

He leaned in and she leaned forward to meet him. “Honestly, Varric, I had already forgiven you.” She filled the silence. "I mean, there was no need to go so far."

He cracked a small smile.

And then he pressed a hand to her side and she cursed in his face.

“I thought I told you to stop talking.” He raised an eyebrow. She glowered.

Kirkwall was a dot, growing larger, against the sun. It was going to be a long trek.

Hawke made them stop a mile outside the gates, taking the break to pour some water over her side. “I shouldn't have read your letters.”

“No. You shouldn't have.” Varric rubbed his neck, examining her through narrowed eyes, “I shouldn't have,” he shrugged, “I won’t say I shouldn't have written them, but I shouldn't have kept them.”

“So,” she let out a breath, crossing her arms, “why do I trust her?"

"Bianca?” Varric raised a surprised brow.

“Yes. Whether I like it or not, she knows some pretty privileged information about my kid. Why do I trust her?” She repeated.

“Because _I_ trust her. _Really_ trust her. Not with everything, not like you,” she blushed and she was sure, now, that the red on his face wasn't just the wind, “but she knows how to hide a trail. How to keep important things secret."

Hawke considered this, steadying her breathing through her nose, a little bit to counteract the pain in her side, but mostly because the thought _He kissed you, he kissed you, Varric. Kissed. You._ was flashing in front of her eyes with every blink.

Ignore it. Islen. Focus on Islen.

"We were going to get married."

"What?"

“The part I left out, before,” He shook his head. She suspected he might be distracting her in his own way. It was surprisingly effective, but then he had a lot of practice. "Star-crossed lovers running away together. Family or love.” He sighed. "I chose family."

"Bartrand. You chose _Bartrand_." Hawke curled her lip.

"More the fool I feel now." He responded and she didn't have to look to know what dark expression his face held. “Still, tricky things, clan wars. In Orzamamar, they’d just collapse a tunnel on your noble house and call it done." Hawke found herself, momentarily stunned. 

"And that's," Hawke searched, "probably against the law?"

"Oh, yes, very." Varric nodded, "but good, old-fashioned assassination is never out of the question."

"How long ago was this?"

"Oh, what?” He scratched his chin absently. “Ten years now?"

"Ten _years_?"

"Yeah, but her family hasn't tried anything for at least five."

"How kind." Hawke said dryly.

"We're still close, we write,” he replied, leaving off the implied _obviously_ , “but if I go near her, we could be in serious trouble. She married some smith and raw lyrium is not a package I'm looking to get on my doorstep."

"When did she get married?"

"A few years ago. As you can imagine I try not to keep track."

"Because you still love her?" Hawke ventured, suddenly recalling a conversation with Aveline about carrying pieces of the people you love. Varric rubbed a hand down his face. "Hey, I’ve very pointedly _not asked_. You started this." She accused with a laugh.

"Kind of wish I hadn't."

She regarded him for a moment before letting her arms fall her her sides. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yes, fine, about Bianca anyway. You're telling me to trust her, I’ll trust her. I’ve had stranger alliances and it’s not like you're saying I have to like it." She turned her best pleading expression on him. “I just wish you'd have been more careful. Or at least told me.”

"You are two very different parts of my life," he said in a low voice, "feels strange even hearing you talk about her."

Hawke nodded in understanding. “Ten years,” she blew out a breath, “and how long have you been sitting on,” she looked over her shoulder, “the other?”

“You don’t have to make anything out of it, Hawke.”

“I really think I do.” She grinned. “You kissed me. You don’t kiss people you don’t like, Varric, especially not me. You _like_ me. Go on, tell me you like me.”

“Maker, you’re irritating.” He let out a huff of air when her smug examination did not let up. “I care about you Hawke, I've always _cared_ about you, but lately,” he scratched his head, laughing nervously, "I don’t know, how does one go about saying, 'I changed my mind, actually I _do_ feel the same about you and, by the way, I think I’ll have that kiss, now’."

“All of that! Any of that!” She chuckled. “I never said no take-backs. _You_ were Mr. Act Normal! I would have been happy with _any_ of that!”

“You'd just had a baby, Marian.”

“ _That was not a new development._ "

“No,” he held up his hands, “just let me explain. I was there, the first time you held Islen. Your face lit up like, Maker’s Breath, Hawke, it was like something lit you from the inside. And after everything with Leandra and the Qunari,” he shook his head, “it was just you and her, and that’s how it _should_ have been. Getting the ground under your feet, figuring things out by yourself. I’m not going to lie. I still thought about kissing you...a lot. But I knew I could help you more as a partner than, well, as a _partner_.”

She remembered a similar train of thought when she had approached Fenris. _He doesn't want this, he isn't ready, this isn't about me or us, it’s about her._ She felt the sting of her own logic loop around to bite her in her own ass.

She kept this in mind as she spoke, gentling her tone. “Maker, Varric, Islen’s over a year old. Why didn't you just tell me? What did you think I would do? Swoon?”

“A year is a long time,” he shrugged, “a lot can happen in a year. Feelings change.”

“Mine haven’t.” She stuck her chin out. “And you still," she faltered. Teasing was one thing, but actually _saying it out loud_? “I mean do you?”

In the space of a breath, she was dragged forward, Varric catching her beneath her arms and sealing his mouth over her own. Her body reacted before her thoughts could catch up, fingers tracing over the fine stubble of his cheeks and snaking into his hair, desperate for something to hold on to. She shifted to meet Varric’s lips, moaning into his mouth. The cool fingertips that had moved to grasp her hips trailed down and down, achingly slow, resting below the curve of her ass. She sighed as he dropped a trail of kisses along her throat, breaking off at the hollow of her shoulder and pressing his face tightly to her neck.

Hawke licked her lips. She gave herself a moment to catch her breath before slowly pulling away, reluctant even with the persistent ache in her side. Varric stared at her with a directness that made her blush and her eyelashes fell against the top of his cheekbones as she refused to be the first to look away.

“So,” Hawke swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, “yes?”

“Maker, you are so,” Varric rolled his eyes only a little bit. “I think the answer to that is _fairly_ obvious.”

She collapsed against him and Varric let out a surprised breath of air at her weight. Hawke wrapped around him tightly, like a many-limbed creature, and planted a kiss at the tip of his ear.

“I can name at least three suitors less complicated than me.”

“I think you mean boring.” She laughed into his ear, “besides, Islen is a very busy little girl. She doesn't have time to go about learning some new person’s name and figuring out whether or not they smell good to her.”

“Is she a cat?”

“She’s already used to having you around. I mean, you helped raise her.”

His grip tightened around her shoulders at that. “I’m not worried about impressing Islen. She can be bribed with sweets. I’m just giving you another chance to escape.”

“Okay, first, _I_ can be bribed with sweets. Please don’t withhold sweets,” she leaned back a bit to eye him. “Second, shit luck. You said you like me and _now_ you’re stuck with me.”

They stayed that way for a few breaths, Hawke curling over Varric and breathing in the smell of soap and smoke a little obsessively.

“That’s great and all,” Varric’s breathing did sound a little laboured, she thought distantly, “but can you be stuck with me… _off_ of me?”

“Mm,” she considered this from the cozy spot in his neck, “no.”

He sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.” And, hefting most of her weight over his shoulders and onto his back, he half dragged her towards the gates of Kirkwall. 

* * *

 

By the time Varric dropped her off with Anders, her side was numb and she was _convinced_ the arrow had been poisoned. Varric left to check on the others and Hawke let him go with very little whinging, though that may have been because she immediately passed out on the proffered cot. When she woke, she was hungry and _desperately_ wanted to see her daughter. And a latrine.

“Thank you, Anders.” Hawke sat cross-legged on his desk when the second need had been taken care of. “I’m sorry about Alain. I wish we could have kept him out of the Circle.”

“At least we were able to get Bethany away.” Anders leaned against the pillar facing her. “I just wish we could have done more.”

“I have some thoughts about that, actually. More like a skeleton of a thought.” Anders tilted his head and she edged herself off the desk. “But I have a child at home who probably misses her mommy so _priorities_.”

“Right.” He chuckled a little, following closely behind her.

“I think I’ll take the short way back.” She jerked her head towards a dark corner of the clinic.

“Here,” Anders produced the key to the Amell family basement.

She looked from the key in his hands to the openness on the mage’s face. “You keep it, just in case."

Instead of the shocked happiness Hawke had been expecting, the man simply looked weary. "You know, this could have come in handy when I was treating you and Islen."

"That's the only key I have," she crossed her arms and, feeling no pain in her side, rejoiced at the miracle that was Anders’ healing fingers, "forgive me for being uncomfortable with anyone but me having it."

"And now you’re comfortable?"

She bit her lip. "I wouldn't say that. But I trust you." _And I don't want you to get hurt._ She kept the last to herself. "Just don’t fill my basement with _cats_. Sarge _may_ eat them.”

Anders looked down at the key smiling lightly. "I'll use it wisely. Thanks for trusting me with it.”

“You’re more likely to need it anyway.” She looked at the few sick faces, some familiar, some new, around the clinic. “Speaking of, have you made any progress down here?"

“Nothing new. Merrill thought she was on to something in the sewers but it seems like everywhere we look is another a dead end.” He shook his head. Hawke unlocked the door to the basement and cold, dry air met her from the other side.

“Shame.” She grimaced. “Keep digging. I believe in you!” She smiled with all the false positivity she could muster and Anders pushed her shoulder in a familiar manner.

“Hawke,” he called as she turned to leave.

“Hm?”

“You were right. At Aveline's wedding."

Hawke wracked her memory. She had said a lot, not all of it kind. How other people remembered the bullshit she spouted was beyond her.

"Fenris and I work well together."

"Oh," she smiled, confused, "good? I mean, I’m glad he found you in time. It was all sort of a, a luck thing I guess."

"It’s not just _luck_ , Hawke. There was a time when he would have killed me for what I was and I," he laughed, humorlessly, "I would have thought him better off a slave than in my company."

Hawke pressed her lips together.

"I thought my patience for the ignorance of this world had reached its limit, but if he can take more and more," he smiled, "I suppose I can keep trying."

Hawke wrapped her arms around his shoulders, trapping him in a bear hug. Anders stiffened, obviously surprised. Their relationship had not been defined by physical affection, beyond friendly slaps and comforting pats. She didn’t ask if he was okay. In truth, she wasn’t sure she could fix what Anders was going through.

“I’m going to see Islen.” She rubbed his shoulders a few times before pulling back.

“Tell her,” his nose wrinkled into an uncomfortable shape, “tell her _nana_ says hi.”

* * *

Aveline was waiting for her when she climbed the stairs to the first floor, arms crossed and foot tapping. Hawke took in the scene, Orana peeking around the corner and Bodahn very carefully _not_ looking in their direction, before letting her shoulders drop.

“Can I see my daughter before we do this?”

Aveline’s mouth pinched into a thin line and her muscles, somehow tightened further, but she moved to let her climb the stairs to Islen’s room.

She took the opportunity to remove her armor, leaving the pieces on the floor and changing into the robe hanging behind Islen’s door. The girl stood, using the side of the crib for balance and reaching for her. “Ma.”

“Ma, ma, yes,” she felt a smile steal across her face, “ma’s had an exciting night. Day. Night-Day.” She chuckled. “You don’t know time you’re just a _baby_.”

Hawke walked a familiar path between the window and the crib, speaking softly to the girl and pausing for her mumbled responses. After a few minutes, she kissed her on her temple and gently set her on her back, watching her until her eyes drifted shut and then heading back downstairs to face Aveline.

“All right,” Hawke waved a hand before her in a vague arch, “go ahead.”

Aveline uncrossed her arms. “Are you _hurt_?”

“A little,” she admitted, motioning to her side, “I had Anders patch me up when I got back.”

“Good,” she took in a deep breath, “What were you _thinking_? I’ve been rotating guard shifts for months to cover your ass. I knew something was going on, assumed it was business as usual for Hawke and company. And did I ask any questions?” Hawke raised a hand but stopped at the look on Aveline’s face. “ _No_. No questions, not even when I had to shuffle some _problematic_ paperwork about you and Islen around or let Varric know about people sniffing into business that wasn't their own.”

“And have I mentioned how much I _really_ appreciate that?”

“And suddenly,” Aveline’s bitter laugh carried over the end of her sentence, “two of my guards are at my door, reporting a hunt for escaped apostates, including one, Bethany Hawke. Why keep something so big, Hawke? Why hide it from _me_.”

“It’s so you _didn't_ have to go out of your way, Aveline. Look at all the work you’ve already been doing. If they found out you were involved,”

“No. Don’t start, Hawke, you know it won’t work and I can’t believe you’d try it.” She pointed to the couch. “Sit down. Explain. _From the beginning_.”

Hawke glanced between the couch and her friend’s extended finger. She had hurt her friend. It wasn’t intentional, she was just trying to help someone. _But then,_ she thought of Varric’s letters to Bianca, isn’t that always the way?

“All right.”

And she explained everything, breaking only to feed Islen. Aveline slowly settled, though she was still no where near calm. Being around Islen seemed to help and Hawke used the child to her advantage, letting her walk the space between them as she spoke.

“So Bethany is out. Whether they think she escaped with Grace is another story.”

“They’ll still suspect you, Hawke.” Aveline shook her head. “You’re the only one with enough power to pull this off.”

“Not necessarily. As I’ve quite recently found out, there are plenty of powerful people in Kirkwall who don’t appreciate the way things are run.” Hawke bounced Islen on her knees. “Varric says they’ve cast too wide a net, you see? The Chantry, the templar order, the Circle, it has too many enemies, even inside itself.”

“You mean to tell me you’re in no danger.” Aveline said skeptically.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, they’ll definitely be keeping a close eye on me, but weren’t they doing that already?” Hawke smirked.

Aveline held her chin. “As long as they can’t get a clear picture of who is against them and as long as they think they can still use you,”

“Orsino, Meredith, Elthina,” Hawke ticked off the names on her hand, “they won’t say anything. Not yet.”

“And what about me?” Aveline’s voice was hard. Hawke held her friend’s gaze across the room.

“What about you, Aveline?”

“I serve Kirkwall, Hawke.” She said, simply. A statement writ in the marrow of her bones. “I serve the people.”

This was how it had always been between them. Aveline’s duty to Kirkwall, and Hawke’s own unspoken promise to the city.

Hawke swallowed hard, choosing her words carefully before she spoke. “I can’t promise my way will be clean. All I can say is that I will never ask you to betray your charge.”

Aveline took a few deep breaths, uncrossing her arms. “I’m used to that much at least.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Bethany.”

“It’s done, Hawke.” She sighed. “I’m glad you’re both safe.”

“Wanna see my scar?” Hawke lifted her shirt a little and Aveline finally cracked a smile.

“No, I’ve seen enough of them, thank you.” She leaned back. “They’re not that interesting.”

“Oh, well,” Hawke examined a loose thread on the sleeve of her robe, “Varric kissed me.”

Aveline’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that _is_ interesting.” She smirked. “And Isabela owes me five sovereigns,” she glanced upwards. Hawke kicked her knee with a foot, mock-scandalized and Aveline laughed. “Or was it ten?”

* * *

 

She took Islen to her room after the woman finally went home for the day. Was it still morning, now? It _was_ looking less pinkish. She smothered a yawn into the black tangle’s of Islen’s hair and the infant reached back to bat at her chin. She carried her to the bed, dislodging Sarge from his place near the pillows to curl up with the girl against her side.

 _Bethany’s out._ She choked down a startled sob as the words sunk in. Islen spared her an expression of curious delight as she set a kiss to the tip of each of her fingers. “This is your doing. If it weren’t for you, I would have never thought of researching lyrium. May have never stumbled on a way to get your aunt out.” She whispered. Islen cooed and attempted to crawl over her side, apparently bored with the conversation already. “I don’t care if you’re a sellsword or a politician, I’m going to tell you how important you are every day.” She shifted to let Islen balance on her shoulder, standing on shaky legs at the center of the bed and trying to push Hawke over with very little effectiveness. “Oh, Maker, what am I thinking? Please don’t be a politician. Choose something safe like a line cook. Or a dragon hunter.”

“Bug tits!” Islen responded, still determinedly pushing at her mother’s shoulder. With one, large shove she fell back, rocking a few times

“I don’t think you’re allowed to say that, yet.” She blinked awake with a laugh, scooping Islen back towards her. “That’s _poor manners,_ that is.”

“Nana.”

“Not Anders, _manners_.”

“Nana.” Islen repeated stubbornly. Hawke sighed.

“Oh, all right.” Reluctantly climbing from the bed, fixing Sarge with a firm stare that kept him at the foot of the bed, she unlocked her coffer and pulled out a small orb. Pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, she twisted the sphere until it glowed a dim blue from the inside. Behind her, Islen clapped her hands and giggled.

The orb was something Anders had given her after a very sick, very cranky Islen had gotten used to the blue light shows he would sometimes provide as a distraction. Malcolm had made something similar for Carver when he was young and _concerned about seeing intruders and absolutely not afraid of the dark, thank you very much_. Bethany had never mastered it, so Hawke used to catch brightbugs instead, keeping them in a jar only for the night so Bethany wouldn’t cry.

This was more complicated than her father’s or her own jar’s design, though it still needed to be recharged every once in a while. She imagined Justice played a large part in the more technical aspects of its creation.

She carefully slipped back into bed beside her daughter, eyes now transfixed by the lights and slowly falling shut. Sarge padded softly behind her and fell into a heap with a soft bark and, surrounded by warmth on both sides, she felt her own eyes drift closed.

* * *

 

It _had_ still been morning when she fell asleep, waking to Orana asking after her presence for lunch. This had likely thrown Islen off her sleep schedule and she winced at the thought of adjusting the girl to it once more. Still, the reward had been well worth it.

She ate her lunch slowly, looking between Bodahn and Sandal and Orana. The father and son pair would be leaving for Orlais soon. While she would be sad to see them go, having gotten rather used to having them around, she was happy to know Bethany wouldn’t be completely alone for long.

After a quick lunch, she scrubbed Islen down with a cloth and dressed her in her nameday tunic, covering her head with one of Merrill’s old scarves. “Come on, the others will want to see you.”

“Wait! I’m coming!” Orana called when she reached the door. She pulled on her shawl, scrambling to fix her hair with one hand while taking an empty basket from Bodahn with the other.

“Come here,” Hawke shook her head, smiling fondly, and readjusted the woman’s hair, pulling a few pieces down by her ears, “ _windblown_.”

Orana touched the side of her hair gently, smiling back a little dazedly. “Thank you.”

“I guess we’re seeing Merrill first.” She teased, nuzzling behind Islen’s ear. Orana blushed scarlet from the tops of her ears to bridge of her nose. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

“It’s called the _vhendahl_ , Islen. The tree of the people.” Merrill explained, one hand on the red and white paint covering the bottom of the bark, the other keeping the little girl from climbing the tree in question. Orana, neither Dalish nor raised in an alienage, turned an interested ear to the conversation. “It is a symbol of Arlathan.”

Hawke sat on one of the nearby crates, watching Islen watching Merrill with open curiosity, as she often did when the woman spoke Elvish. The tree in the alienage and the water at the docks were vying for top spot on _Islen’s favorite playplace_ list and both setting’s occupants had accepted the oft frequent presence of the girl with ease. Even now, a few of the older children were gathering around her, attempting to drag her into play with them.

“What happened to your stick ball?” She heard Orana ask one of the children in the circle and turned to watch the interaction.

“Broke.” The girl said simply, turning back to the tree with a shrug.

“You should be more careful with the things your mother buys you, Rhys.” Hawke was surprised to hear Orana gently scold her.

“Well, _I_ didn’t break it!” She protested hotly.

“They were only playing, Orana.” Merrill defended as Rhys ran off to join some of the others in their game of...something involving mud and rocks and a bit of string, Hawke concluded upon squinting at the group of children.

“Still, she had a responsibility.” Orana stood up straighter. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

Merrill winced in sympathy and looked to Hawke for back up. Hawke rubbed the base of her neck, humming quietly.

“Orana, can you watch Islen?” Orana looked to her, puzzled but nodded nonetheless. “Merrill, follow me.” Obviously confused as well, Merrill followed.

Merrill and Hawke returned with a few wooden toys and a ball, the group gathering around to see their haul. “You have to share these.” Hawke let them know before placing them on the ground in front of their feet. They barely registered her words before running off in pairs. Islen stayed glued to the tree, one of the boys concentrating, tongue peeking out, on braiding her very short hair. They could have passed for siblings.

“Concentrating so hard!" Merrill touched a finger to her forehead. Hawke stared at the digit, eyes crossed. "What are you thinking about?”

“I like Islen spending time here,” Hawke admitted. She had meant Lowtown, maybe Kirkwall in general, but more specifically, the alienage, “but I don’t like it. This place.” She shook her head, “You can trick yourself into thinking it’s nice sometimes, because it’s home, you know?”

Merrill ran a hand through her hair and looked around the alienage. The packed apartments surrounding the large tree and small stalls selling wares at half price. The steel gate to shut them off from the rest of Lowtown at night, to keep them separate.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever make that mistake.” The elf confessed. “You had a home before Kirkwall, too. Did you ever convince yourself this was just as good?

“When I lived in Lowtown, I was too busy to think about it. Warm bed, mother and Bethany. It was enough." Hawke leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and stared at Islen, running in circles around the boy now. “Grace said that she blamed me for where she was.”

“Are you stuck on _that_? That wasn’t your fault, Hawke.” Merrill said, defiant. “You helped her escape in the first place.”

“Technically true. I didn’t know she was there and I can’t say I could have helped her escape if I did.” She laughed, darkly. “But she was right, too. I didn’t really care.”

Merrill was quiet for a long time. “You care, Hawke.” She sat on the crate beside her. “You’ve helped a lot of people.”

“Hm?” She turned to face her. “Oh. I know that. There’s just a whole section of people I never even consider, someone I’ve overlooked,” she trailed off, “unless it’s convenient. I suppose.”

“You can’t fix every problem you see, Hawke. That’s why Keepers have a First. To delegate! You’re good at that!”

“That’s true.” She conceded, remembering the amount of work Aveline had done without Hawke having to breathe a word.

Merrill patted her hand. “We all help each other out, you know. It works, fine, see? Nothing to worry about.”

Hawke leaned her head on Merrill’s shoulder, watching Orana drag one of the children away from the rest of the group by her ear after a particularly hard toss knocked over a stall’s wares. Some of the other children laughed and went back to playing and Hawke felt, rather than saw, Merrill trying to fight her own chuckle.

Hawke stopped worrying for a while. Whether or not this place was _nice_ , it was Merrill’s home. She would keep her eyes open.

* * *

 

It was early afternoon by the time she left the alienage to visit the Hanged Man. Islen picked up on where they were immediately, demanding to be allowed to half-crawl, half-walk up the stairs to Varric’s room on her own. Hawke’s patience held through her daughter’s struggle and, many minutes later, she found herself in the same room she had barged into the night before.

Like then, Varric was asleep, though this time he was on the bed. Hawke wasn’t shocked. On top of their little excursion, he had made the rounds with everyone _and_ reported to Orsino for her. According to Merrill the bloodied arrowhead from her side was, _Thrown onto Orsino’s desk, oh no I swear it’s funny, it’s just much funnier the way Varric tells it. You’ll just have to ask him, Hawke_.

She settled Islen into the bassinet that they had begun keeping there after a few late night meetings with the crew. It was small, compared to her crib at home, but nap time knew no spaces for the little girl, and she had had a long night too. She fell asleep fairly quickly, Hawke watching from the rail of the crib.

Amazingly this had not woken the man on the bed. She padded over and touched his shoulder but he only turned further into himself. “Wow,” Hawke settled on the edge of the bed, playing with the ends of his hair, “so vulnerable. Anyone could sneak in and move your paperwork around.”

She stretched out on the bed and pooled around his shoulders, pulling up her knees and nestling against his back. She could hear blood rushing in her ears and willed herself to calm. She could do this now, she had a… _tacit_ permission, she reasoned, and it was _Varric_. He wouldn't care if he woke up and found her sleeping on his bed. She’d passed out there often enough, before. _Before_.

 _No,_ she thought with a firm inner voice, _he wouldn’t care and you’re being completely...bug tits about all of this._

At the zenith of her tumultuous thoughts, he turned, brandy brown eyes flecked with topaz staring, unblinking, into her own. She closed them before his lips touched hers, more prepared this time, and still not prepared in the slightest. She hadn’t had the time to process whether their first kiss was necessarily a _good_ one, though she knew them both to be experienced in their own rights. The burst of elation, the drag of fingers on skin, her own shock; those were the things that stood out to her, from that time.  
This was slower, sound, and her mood was chased from her mind.

They kissed like a ballad, a steady outpouring of emotions that quickly swelled until she pulled at him in an unspoken request for _deeper_ and _more_. Her lungs burned and, even with the leisurely pace, the smaller caresses between, the need for regular breath eventually prevailed and they separated, if only by a few inches.

“Ah, I see,” she teased, “trickery.”

“Congratulations. You have discovered my cunning plan to get an extra hour of sleep.” He replied, deadpan, lips curving into a smile.

“I think I’ll stay here, if that’s all right.” She tried to conceal the thread of anxiety in her voice. She was certain her false bravado would have worked on anyone else, but it was obvious that she had surprised Varric.

“I’d be a little disappointed if you didn’t.” He continued to stare at her, bemused.

She felt whatever ball of doubt that remained uncurl and dissipate as she tangled around him, burrowing herself into his neck. Varric wanted to keep kissing her, Varric wanted to see her when he woke up. Varric wanted her to stay.

 _What was I thinking, of course he does_ , she thought, sinking further into the sheets and dozing lightly, _we’re amazing together._

* * *

 

She awoke covered in a sheen of sweat. By the light it had only been an hour or so and, at some point, Varric had covered them with one of the thicker blankets. _We’re going to have to talk about that._ She wrinkled her nose, crawling out from his arm and taking in his slack jawed expression.

It was harder to see him in the dimness of the room, but what little light hit him made his hair look a wild gold.

_Maker, I love you._

She felt her face heat. She couldn’t remember saying the words, properly, even in the quiet of her own mind. Perhaps she had avoided them out of embarrassment, more likely to keep some semblance of normalcy between the two of them. It didn’t matter now. She could think it as often, as loudly as she liked. It sent a wash of happiness over her and her face ached from smling.

 _You can’t just stare at him all night, silly woman._ Some exasperated, hungrier part of her beat against her dizzy thoughts. Kissing the curve of his cheekbone, she finally turned away.

Islen was still sleeping soundly in her bassinet, sprawled on her back and clutching the corner of a blanket. Hawke reached over to straighten out her tunic and tickle the little girl’s tummy and when her own stomach loudly growled.

 _Food_. She thought, her hungry thoughts earlier suddenly coming to the forefront of her mind with more clarity. She passed a hand through her hair before heading out of the room.

...And straight into Isabela. Hawke smiled widely, stepping forward to greet her, but the other woman cut her off with a finger to her lips. Hawke blinked in surprise as Isabela leaned forward to smell the front, then giggled when she moved to the crook of her neck.

“Stop! _Stop!_ ”

“ _Bow wax._ ” Isabela pulled back, tsking accusingly.

Hawke yawned, still grinning. “What?”

Isabela gave a great sigh. "I owe Aveline ten sovereigns,” she narrowed her eyes, “thanks a lot Hawke."

“No, no, I can explain,” Hawke said with no inflection, waving a hand slowly through the air and trying to push down her smile.

"Look at you. You look so _stupidly_ happy. Come here" She pulled her under her arm and walked her down the stairs this way. "Keep me company while I eat. You obviously have a story to tell."

"Bethany's free, Isabela." Hawke responded, voice low and leaning into her embrace.

"I know, love."

"And _Varric_ is," she ended with a breathy sigh.

“Just like you, cutting it off at the good part.” Isabela teased. "Night of your dreams, then?"

"No, I checked." Hawke dimpled. "I'm awake."

* * *

 

She had forgotten that entertaining Isabela could be a sport in and of itself. This was especially so when the pirate was trying to pry juicy information from behind your lips. When she drudged up the stairs and entered the room, Varric was at his desk with Islen. Hawke did not let this deter her, making a beeline for the bed and collapsing immediately.

“See that, kid,” she heard him mumble behind closed lids, “give her an inch and she takes the whole bed.”

“What was that?”

“Remind me to have you look at the Bone Pit next week.”

“Right, right,” she waved, absently, pulling the covers up to her chin and watching them across the room.

Varric was discussing story details with Islen who seemed genuinely interested, standing on his legs and leaning over the desk, spreading the papers in wide movements that knocked them to the floor.

“Are you cleaning for me?” He leaned his elbow on the desk and paused what he was saying to look directly at the girl.

Islen stared back. “Bug tits.”

“Thank you, sweetheart, that’s very thoughtful.” He nodded, looking away.

“No, Varric,” Hawke turned and groaned into the pillow, “that’s one she _can’t_ say.”

“She’ll grow out of it.” Varric laughed, sounding much closer to her now. “Besides, the more you argue with her, the more she’ll want to say it.”

She glanced up to, in fact, argue with _him_ on the subject only to find he was _much closer_ now. “Hi.” She felt the side of her mouth pull up against her will.

“Hey.” He smiled back, all _roguish_ and she wanted to hit him for it. Here sat her best friend, who knew all the right moves and how to make her smile and she was _absolutely positive_ he’d been secretly practicing them, secure in the knowledge he’d be able to use them one day. She was going to have to start fighting dirty, fast.

For the moment, however, Islen was still on his lap, granted not paying the slightest attention as she was transfixed on the dragon toy she had dropped months ago.

“Want some company back to Hightown?”

“I don’t know,” she replied with feigned concern, “are you sure you can stay away from the squalor of Lowtown for a whole night?”

He snorted. “You think I’m spending the night? That’s presumptuous.”

“What can I say?” Hawke shrugged, reaching around him to pull Islen onto her stomach. “I’m a dreamer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious, Islen is around 16 months by this point. So she's already started speaking in little spurts (copying every terrible thing she hears her mother say, hah) and walking pretty well.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has been reading and leaving comments and kudos and bookmarks, even in my more extended absences when life takes priority c:
> 
> And thank you, as always, to my beta, kazzashepard.

_9:36 Dragon_

Hawke did eventually remember to ask Varric about the Bone Pit because she liked making money and, for whatever reason, Hubert’s reports indicated a halt in productivity. That meant no money. While most of her companions would have joked about the worker’s eating the costs (though she would argue that compensation for spider and dragonling attacks had been _way_ down since she took on the project), the labyrinth of tunnels was a cause close to her heart. A fresh start for Ferelden refugees.

Now standing in front of its smoldering ruins, she finally had to concede her friends’ point.  
  
“That,” Isabela looked over the ledge of the cliff into the canyon below, “is a dragon.”  
  
“A _high dragon_.” Hawke clarified.  
  
Isabela’s eyes glinted. “Means more _stuff_.”  
  
“I have a child,” Hawke bemoaned, “I can’t fight another _dragon_.”  
  
“Oh, Andraste’s bountiful bosom,” the other woman crossed her arms, “are you going to use that excuse _every time_?”  
  
“It's not an excuse, it's a practicality!”  
  
“It’s _laziness_!” Hawke was _fairly_ sure Isabela was joking.  
  
The mammoth of a beast was sunbathing, almost peacefully, in the big patch of dirt below them. Maker it was _enormous_. It had been meant as a peace offering but she was suddenly very glad she had invited Aveline along.  
  
She stared longingly into the pit, then back at Isabela. “We really _should_ do something about it…”  
  
“Please! Champion, help us!” Varric and Aveline tore off in the direction of a muffled voice from the path beside them.  
  
“We got a live one!” The two lifted the half-burned wagon off of the man.  
  
Hawke’s face lit up. “Come on, friends! The people call. Duty and all that," Hawke jogged past the wagon, weapons drawn, “let's just hope this one is another friendly shapeshifter."

* * *

It was _not_ a shapeshifter, friendly or otherwise, and Hawke's company, plus a few wounded workers returned to Kirkwall covered in pungent, sticky dragon's blood.

Aveline who, as always, bore the least of their bruises and Isabela, who somehow managed to avoid most of the dragon’s blood the damned wench, offered to bring the workers to Anders while Varric and Hawke spent a good amount of silver to have a hot bath drawn at the Hanged Man.  
  
“You sure you don’t want to check on Islen, first?”  
  
“I just fought a dragon and lived. We deserve this.” Hawke stripped down with ease after years of practice. “Besides, the last thing I want the pip to see is her own mother covered in blood, no matter the kind.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Varric smiled indulgently.  
  
Hawke was suddenly very aware of her lack of dress, standing in only her small clothes in the middle of the room, and turned to check on the water. The heat from the bath rose to touch her cheeks, already warm with embarrassment. She heard Varric take up her pile of clothes, and half turned to see him hand the armor to a boy outside. She used the opportunity to remove the rest of her clothing and sink into the tub. Flushed or not, she was damned sore and the water called to her as sensually as any lover.

Her eyes fell to half-slits, skin prickling where the colder air from the window reached in to press against her flesh. Varric went to sit on the bath stool, pressing his lips to her shoulder as he passed. She felt a shiver go through her, watching the steam rise from the water and playing with some of the knobs in the wood, almost absently.  
  
The two had found it hard to get a moment alone in the past week. Things had been quiet on Orsino and Meredith’s end and, whereas Hawke would have appreciated the silence before, now it only served to make her nervous.  
  
After a few minutes, she realised Varric was not joining her. His warm gaze followed her as she slid further beneath the water.  
  
Hawke was a familiar blend of frustrated and relieved. Knowing that Varric had kept some kind of attraction from her secret for as long as he had did wonders for her ego, but they both seemed to be working around _them_ as more than a concept. By some unspoken agreement, it had been acknowledged they would stumble into this slowly, if blindly.  
  
Hawke shifted herself closer; an arm’s reach. To her knowledge she didn't have a taking it slow button or at least not one that had ever been pressed on _purpose_. But she _loved_ Varric. She had a habit of breaking the things she loved when she didn't pay enough attention. She knew it was true despite what everyone told her. Hawke didn’t _specifically_ think of Fenris, but he was, in her mind, the last in a long line of ‘fools rush in and get fucked over’. She didn't want to ruin this.  
  
He was still _watching_ her. She shifted her thighs in small, hopefully unobserved movements. Hawke leaned forward to remove the ribbon from his hair. She never understood why he wore it up, when she only took it back down as soon as she got her hands on it. He did look a bit like a cat as she ran her fingers through it though.  
  
She eyed him carefully, voice as steady as she could keep it. “You’re not joining me?”  
  
“Happy to watch.”  
  
“You’re filthy.” He lifted a brow. “No, really, you’re disgusting,” she kicked some water up at him with her foot.  
  
“All right, I can take a hint.” Varric stood, tossing his duster in the direction of his desk.  
  
“It wasn’t a hint, it was a _fact_.”  
  
Then he removed his shirt and she stopped making any noise at all. Her hungry gaze traced the lines of his tightly packed muscles down to the swell under the thin cloth of his breeches.  
  
Wait, they were taking things slow. She ran his ribbon through her hand, looping it around her fingers and tightening until she felt a tingling somewhere _above_ her waist. She had seen Varric shirtless many times. Traveling hadn’t afforded them much modesty over the years and Isabela’s amazing luck at cards allowed even less. She knew his clothes hid exceptionally toned arms as well as _other_ attributes.  
  
But there had been that part of her brain, always in action. Look, don’t touch. Oh, she just wanted to rake her nails through the hair on his chest and hear him,  
  
“Marian?”  
  
“Hm?” She pulled tighter at the chord on her hand. Varric was pointing at the tub and she jumped a little in realisation. “Oh, right, sorry.” Her grin was weak as he bent over the tub, reaching into the water and under her legs for a cloth.  
  
Then he pulled back, took his place on the stool, and began to wash.  
  
Hawke stared at him, open-mouthed. When it was obvious he wouldn’t be joining her, she settled back, unable to contain her small noise of disappointment. “I have to say, you’ve put me in an _incredibly tight_ spot.”  
  
“Between a rock and a _hard_ place?” he chuckled, draping the cloth on the edge of the tub, “practice can be nice too.”  
  
“I've gotten quite a lot of practice in with the one at home, thanks.” The water was cool now. She edged up to meet him, arms crossing and chin resting on her hands. “Why not just have a rinse off, hm? I promise I can make it _quick_.”  
  
Whatever else she was going to say was cut off with a searing kiss. He dragged her up, half out of the water and held her there, her wet breasts in a slow, sweet slide against his chest. She bit back a moan, taking deep breaths through her nose and tracing the outline of his lips with the tip of her tongue.  
  
Then, as suddenly as he was upon her, he was pulling away.  
  
He lowered her back into the tub and she looked up at him, still dazed. He cupped her cheeks and kissed her into giggles. She batted his face away with her nose, somewhat ineffectual with him still trapping her arms to her side.  
  
_Those arms **are** strong._ She thought, dizzily, their foreheads pressed together.  
  
“Well, I think I’m a little less filthy now.” He moved to dress behind the curtain in his room.  
  
Hawke dipped lower into the water, her hands tightly palming her inner thighs. She seethed, glaring at him through the wood. “You’re a wicked, _wicked_ dwarf, Varric Tethras.”  
  
“And I’ve got the gold to prove it.” He laughed, good-naturedly.  
  
She grunted. That was it. She was going to _murder_ him.  
  
She carefully stepped out of the tub, finding herself on rather wobblier footing.  
  
She was going to murder him, _after_ she remembered how to stand properly, she amended.  
  
“I love you, Marian.”  
  
Hawke, who had been reaching out of the window for what was _most likely_ one of Varric’s shirts, paused and turned. He now leaned against the divider watching her with a fond, even expression.  
  
Hawke pulled the shirt she had gathered from the line over her head. “Did someone die?”  
  
“What?” Varric’s eyes widened. “No! Why would you think that?”  
  
“I don’t know. Anytime someone’s told me they loved me, it’s usually when something bad’s _going_ to happen, or when it’s just got done happening.”  
  
Varric shrugged, a little bemused. “I hope I can disappoint you in that regard.” And he went to the mirror to straighten his hair as if nothing had happened.  
  
Hawke processed this, watching his back as he examined hair and teeth and poked at the bags under his eyes.  
  
_Oh, why the hell not?_  
  
“I love you, too.” Hawke bent to pick up Islen’s dragon, left in his room once again. “I mean, I don’t know what I’d have done, what I’d do,” she coughed hard, “well, you know.”  
  
When she looked up, Varric’s smile was big and bright. “Are _you_ dying?”  
  
Hawke threw Islen’s toy at him. “Shut up and find me some breeches.”  
  
“Yes, _love_.”

* * *

To abate her own nervousness she went to the Gallows the next morning. She had put off seeing Orsino about his disappearing mages. He would only buy _recovering from an infected arrow wound_ for so long and and, soon, word of her adventure at the Bone Pit would reach his ears.

He didn’t look up when she entered. She moved around the room, examining various objects on his shelves as he continued to write. When she stopped in front of his desk, he finally stilled, directing his gaze to her.  
  
“I am sorry,” Orsino folded his hands over the paper in front of him, “about your sister.”  
  
“I was informed, by you, actually that there were measures in place to prevent this from happening.”  
  
“Yes, Serah Tethras has already made us aware of our failings in this matter.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, sorry about that.” Varric _had_ told her about the visit to the Gallows that Merrill had mentioned. She had been right, it was funny. “I heard it was...loud.”  
  
“He was not incorrect. I told you we would keep Bethany safe. She was kidnapped. We failed.”  
  
“I thought the Templars were supposed to be keeping special tabs on her.” Hawke crossed her arms. “If their method isn’t working, shouldn’t I be blaming them?”  
  
“Funny, I’ve heard the Order say similar about you.”  
  
They stared at each other and the silence seemed to stretch. “Oh?”  
  
“Meredith believes, wholeheartedly, in the Templar uprising. Not too shocking as her paranoia comes in boundless supply.” He muttered, dryly. “The Knight-Captain, however, suggested looking further into exactly how your sister disappeared.”  
  
“Cullen?” She scoffed. “He was _there_. He saw what happened.”  
  
“Knight-Captain Cullen believes _exactly_ what he sees, Champion. Not the aftermath, not the eyewitnesses. A nice balance to our Knight-Commander, though it would make him troublesome to someone trying to slip something under the Templar’s radar. Something to keep in mind.”  
  
He was warning her. Hawke stayed very still and _knew_ that he _knew_. Well, that was always a possibility, she considered, even if he had no proof. But to _warn_ her?  
  
Hawke remained silent and Orsino turned back to his papers. “Bethany was always a wonderful student. Very kind. She spoke of you fondly.”  
  
“You and Meredith,” she gave him a considering look, “really _don’t_ have common goals.”  
  
“We are a mage and a templar. It seems contradictory."  
  
“You can’t have always thought that,” Hawke pointed out, “you’re the First Enchanter.”  
  
“Before everything, I am an elf with magic. I am in the safest position for someone like me to be.” Orsino placed his quill back down. “For a time, I thought I could help others here,” He looked up, opening his mouth to speak again, and _flinched_.  
  
Hawke turned to look behind her. A genial young woman stood in the door. Hawke’s gaze traveled to her forehead. _Tranquil._ She thought, somberly.  
  
“Elsa,” Orsino greeted, sounding weary, “how may I assist you?”  
  
“The Knight-Commander wishes to speak with the Champion.”  
  
“Word gets around here, hm?” Hawke raised a brow. “Lead the way. Good talking to you, First Enchanter.”  
  
“A pleasure, as always, Serah Hawke.”

* * *

“You have recovered in your absence.” Meredith commented on her entrance. “I am glad to see it.”

“Thanks,” Hawke rubbed her shoulder, “and thanks for the quick reaction time. It, ehm, really helped.” She lied, outright. Even had they not been trying to avoid the Templars, Cullen and his men had arrived _after_ the fighting to quietly escort Alain back to the Circle. Still, she had learned that soldier-types liked to feel needed.

“It is a terrible day when any of our own falls to temptation.” The woman spoke solemnly. “We can only hope the same is not true of your sister, Champion.”  
  
“Bethany was kidnapped to get to me.” Hawke countered. “That you let her out of your care is your fault as far as I’m concerned.”  
  
Meredith narrowed her eyes. “You are _understandably_ upset at the events of those _seditious_ men who bore the mantle of Templar. However, I can not be sure your sister was innocent in this matter.”  
  
Hawke laughed. “Then why aren’t you _looking_ for her? That’s your job isn’t it?”  
  
“We haven’t the resources to search outside Kirkwall. Not while the plague of blood mages still stain the streets of our city. While my own men turn against me.”  
  
“So you’re just, what, letting her go?”  
  
“As of now we are treating this as a kidnapping, as your report concluded. Should she return, I will deal with her _personally_ , along with Orsino, who has undoubtedly orchestrated this mess.” Meredith growled. “Be grateful we’re not investigating the matter further. I know your _friends_ will be.” And Meredith said friends in the way street vendors said _beggars_.  
  
Hawke drew in a breath, opened her mouth, and let it out slowly.  
  
“I know how you must feel, Champion.” Meredith sat behind her desk, folding her hands in a similar manner to Orsino. “The desire to help your family pulling against the wish to do what’s right.”  
  
Honestly, that sounded more like Aveline. If Meredith stripped her bare to see her thoughts, she was sure their idea of what was _right_ would be vastly different.  
  
“You have family?” Hawke clung to the last sentence, steering the woman away from talk of mages.  
  
"Had." Meredith lowered her chin. “Parents, a sister.”  
  
“Yeah, you argue like one.” Hawke snorted. “I mean, it’s like fighting with myself.”  
  
Meredith smiled a little at that. “She was the reason I joined the Templar Order. A sweet thing, not strong like Bethany.  
  
“I’m surprised to hear you say that.” Hawke leaned against Meredith’s desk, arms crossed.  
  
“Your sister _is_ strong. That doesn’t mean she could never fall to temptation. She could tell you, better than I, the demons that plague a mage’s mind, no matter their will. The Circle provides structure so that never happens. We thought we could protect _my_ sister from the Circle.” She took in a breath, her fists tightening. “A demon got to her first. She had killed so many before I could…”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Hawke swallowed, “I can’t imagine,” she stopped. The truth was she _could_ imagine killing her sister. Her father had made her practice, in case the worst happened.  
  
“It doesn’t matter.” Meredith stood, waving her off. “It is the past.”  
  
_Anders, Fenris, Merrill,_ Hawke listed off, _even Varric. And now Meredith. So many people who claim the past doesn’t matter. And look at how it shapes them. How much has it shaped me?_  
  
“I know you wish to remain neutral in this city,” Meredith continued, “a friend to _everyone_. You may find that won’t be an option for much longer, Serah Hawke.”  
  
Hawke nodded mutely. She already knew that.  
  
She only wondered if Meredith had figured out which side she had landed on.

* * *

“I can hear you thinking from over here.” Varric entered his suite with a tray of dinner rolls. Hawke sat with her face in a book and Islen between her legs, resorting a stack of wooden blocks. She was making more complicated buildings now.“I can’t believe you’re actually paying any attention to the principles of,” he sounded genuinely concerned “Hedge Witchery?”

She was, actually. She knew nothing about different types of magic but Isabela had mentioned it, briefly, that she had known them in Rivain. “Apparently Hedge Witches _let_ themselves be possessed.”  
  
Varric shuddered. “Oh, come on,”  
  
“But, but!” Hawke held up a finger. “It’s made them skilled at communications magics. It allows them to feel connected to one another. Read thoughts, send messages, stuff like that.”  
  
“Equally unsettling.” He sat in front of her, placing the tray a little ways from the tower of blocks. “Any _reason_ you’re looking at this?”  
  
“Letters take a while to get to Orlais.” Hawke set her book to the side. “If that’s even where she’s going. I was wondering if magic had a quicker way.”

“Why not ask Anders?”  
  
“He’s got his own problems.” She examined the bread in front of her for mold before handing one of the smaller ones to Islen. “It was just a thought.”  
  
“So was a _device_ to push things through walls, if I recall.” Varric chuckled, tearing open one of his letters. “I don’t know how to feel about your _thoughts_ , Hawke.”  
  
She stuck her tongue out at him and they ate in a companionable silence.  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“Huh.” Islen mimicked, eyeing the last roll. Hawke tore it in half and placed it in her waiting hands.  
  
When Varric didn’t respond, she looked up. He was reading a letter closer to the bottom of his stack. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense.”  
  
“I know this is ancient history, but remember that house Bartrand barricaded himself in?”  
  
“I try not to, but the thought stirs a vague recollection.”  
  
“We’re on the same page there,” he set the letter aside. “I’ve been trying to get rid of the place for ages now.”  
  
“I _was_ thinking of expanding my noble empire…”  
  
“You? _Please_ you’ve got enough places to crash in this city, like you need another house.” Varric rolled his eyes. “I’d just end up managing the estate, anyway.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” she shrugged, “what do you need?”  
  
“I found a minor noble in Rivain. He’s willing to purchase the place, _sight unseen_. So, of course, I’ve hit a snag.”  
  
“Curse of being my friend.”  
  
“Curse of being a Tethras.” He smirked. “The people I pay to tend to the place say it’s _haunted_.”  
  
“Haunted.” She repeated.  
  
“They’ve noticed some _minor_ problems. Voices whispering in the walls, apparitions, things moving on their own.”  
  
Hawke feigned shock. “You mean to tell me that _isn’t_ the standard fare for Hightown estates?”  
  
“Haha,” Varric said, dryly, “my hope is it’s a relic Bartrand brought back from the Deep Roads. We smash it and the problem stops.  
  
“And if that doesn’t work?”  
  
“Ah, that’s where things get tricky.”  
  
“And you accuse _me_ of poor planning.”  
  
“Look, Hawke, I’m a _businessman_. Now and then, I shoot people. I don’t know anything about ghosts or magic and I don’t want to deal with this weird shit on my own. You’re coming right?”  
  
“Ghoshit!” Islen laughed. Varric looked up, ruefully.  
  
“To watch you,” she glanced down at Islen, now happily gnawing on one of the sweet rolls, “ _wet_ yourself over a few drafty windows? Absolutely.”

* * *

“Holy shit!”

Hawke and Varric recoiled together as a pot came soaring towards them.  
  
“Andraste’s ass, _objects moving_ ,” Hawke made quotations in the air, “soaring, vicious, _attacking_ objects! How did your people fail to mention _that_?”  
  
“You must have done something to piss it off, Hawke.” Varric looked over his shoulder at the shattered pot behind them.  
  
“Oh, isn’t that _always_ the way?” She threw her hands in the air.  
  
“Hello, Messere Ghost? Would you stop that, please?” Merrill directed her question at a floating chair. The panic on her face didn’t ease when the chair landed, softly, on the ground. If anything, she clutched her staff a little tighter to her chest.

Hawke had invited Aveline along as well, for the smashing bits, though they were still unsure how they would fair in that department.  
  
“Where is that voice coming from?” Varric asked, stepping into the next room.  
  
“What voice?” Aveline looked to Hawke, concerned. Hawke shrugged.  
  
“I can barely hear it,” he muttered, tilting his head a little, “I wish I could make out the words.”  
  
“I know the supernatural,” Hawke whispered, searching for her next word, “ _spooks_ you but,”  
  
A scream interrupted her from a room off the hall and several, higher-pitched screams followed.  
  
“Oh, for mercy’s sake!” A red-faced Aveline drew her sword, leading the others to find the source. They found only dusty figures chasing one another and fading into the walls as they reached them.  
  
“This isn’t being caused by some random artifact,” Varric grabbed her arm, “the idol is still in the house, Hawke! It has to be!”  
  
Hawke’s eyebrows drew together. “ _The_ idol? The _drive you mad, lock you in the Deep Roads with a Rock Wraith, and leave you for dead_ idol?”  
  
Varric nodded mutely, removing his hand. It made sense, when she stopped to think about it (and when did she do that, she thought with no little self-deprecation). Bartrand’s precious red lyrium idol. No wonder this place was so topsy-turvy. If Varric’s notes were to be believed, the Thaig hadn’t turned up the _one_ idol, but a slew of the red stuff. He lost a few _very well paid_ workers before commissioning tankards to keep even a little bit in.  
  
_I guess that makes Varric the expert. Our expert who is hearing things._ She thought, apprehensively, cutting her gaze to him. He took the lead searching the room, Bianca held rigidly in front of him and seemingly oblivious to the rest of them. _Like a mabari with a scent._ Aveline was watching him, more closely, from the corner of her eye. Hawke jogged ahead, temporarily blocking the woman’s view and turning to face her.  
  
“Let’s separate by east and west wing. We can meet back up in the main hall,” She suggested, when the group turned to listen.  
  
“I’m not sure that’s wise.” Aveline cautioned. Beside her, Merrill looked equally concerned.  
  
“You ever read what happens after a group splits in a haunted house, Hawke?” Varric raised a brow and lowered his crossbow.  
  
“The elf _always_ dies first!” Merrill clung tight to Aveline’s elbow.  
  
“This place isn’t that big,” Hawke countered, “and we have an idea of what we’re looking for, now. Right, Varric?”  
  
Varric’s brows drew together. “Right.” He responded slowly.  
  
“You weren’t with us in the Deep Roads.” She addressed the others. “This is dangerous stuff on a clear day, the idol was a special breed of not good.”  
  
“I got that.” Aveline smiled a little.  
  
“Just making sure.”  
  
“The _leaving you for dead_ bit tipped us off.” Merrill quipped.  
  
“All right!” Hawke clapped her hands. “The quicker we find this stuff the quicker we’re out of here!”

* * *

“We’re never leaving this damned house.”

“Maybe if you didn’t want to _split up_.”  
  
Hawke entered a room at the end of the hall in silence.  
  
“I thought for sure you were trying to sneak away for a quickie.”  
  
“Varric, I’m not making out with you in a dusty, haunted broom closet.”  
  
Varric shrugged. “You don’t seem to have a problem with The Hanged Man. It’s definitely dirtier and I’m _pretty sure_ more people have died there.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure _we_ killed them.” She muttered, unapologetic. “No, you looked like you could use a break.”  
  
“A break from searching the house to search the house?” He asked sardonically.  
  
“Aveline was giving you that look. You know the _would it be safer for you to spend the night in jail_ look?”  
  
“I know the one.” He nodded. “Thanks. I think this place was getting to me.”  
  
She shrugged it off. “What is this?” She looked around the room, stacked high with crates.  
  
“The junk room.” Varric walked further in, a smile plastered on his face. He _had_ settled, somewhat in the small time since the group had split.  
  
“ _This_ is junk?” Hawke lifted a pale gown to her face to examine it more closely. It was well worn with age, a dusky red, and smelled of mothballs. Beneath that she could smell...flowers. The little blue ones that grew in Hightown. She only remembered because they were the ones Varric nearly always suggested at the shops.  
  
“My mother’s,” Varric explained, “and practically junk. It’s everything the _noble house Tethras_ was able to bring from Orzammar. Practically worthless, now, and what isn’t would have to be sold underground anyway.”  
  
He seemed content to pick through some of the old wares in the storage crates littered around the room. Still, nostalgia was a fickle thing, and she tread carefully around the bitter tone in his voice. “You seemed pretty happy about that bauble on your finger.”  
  
He turned his wrist to examine the signet ring on his finger. “You found it for me.” He said as though it was the most obvious fact.  
  
“I thought it helped get letters signed.” She ribbed him.  
  
“There’s that, too,” he smirked back, “but I think the weight would have been a lot heavier if I found it myself. Hell I may have just left it in the damn trinket shop to prove a point.”  
  
"That sounds like you." She smiled fondly. "So, this dress was _the_ Lady Ilsa’s? You don't think some of this will be good as hand-me-downs?" Varric stared at her and she wondered, _knew_ she had stepped on some line. People got _strange_ about family. She should know. “Sorry, that was too far."  
  
"No. It's fine"  
  
“It doesn’t have to be. You can have a problem with it.” She lay the dress back in its box. “Being a sudden, you know...”  
  
“Well, you said it. I did help raise her.”  
  
“She’s called you papa.” Hawke told Varric and it was all she could do not to wince. “I had to make her stop.”  
  
“I know.” Varric grinned fiercely. “I _should_ mention that she didn’t stop. She just learned to do it when you weren’t listening.”  
  
“Ah, so she had encouragement.” Hawke rested against a table, arms crossed over her chest. She smiled “I named her Islen before,” she shook her head, “all of this. It just feels like,”  
  
“It _feels like_ it took me a while to catch up.” Varric leaned in, pushing her arms to her sides. “I realised I wanted you when you were holding that sometimes smelly, often poorly-influenced child. I’m all in.”  
  
“I guess I just expected this part to be harder.”  
  
“I _knew_ you made us split up for that.”  
  
Hawke looked around discreetly, “Well, it seems like nothing’s trying to attack us in here at least.”  
  
Hawke hoisted herself onto one of the boxes, thighs splayed wide, and Varric leaned in slowly, one hand reaching to cup her ass and the other resting on her hip. She nipped around his jaw, rubbing against the stubble there and relishing the jolt that went through him when she found the sensitive shell of his ear. She hooked a leg around his waist, pulled him closer to her as feather light fingers moved across her stomach, unclasping a buckle at her waist and disappearing into the tight fabric of her breeches.  
  
She arched into his touch, laughing in short, sharp breaths. Her hips twisted desperately as his hand travelled further south, muscles clenching in her thighs. She opened an eye to watch him reach for the belt at her breast and her mind stuttered as she remembered where they were.  
  
”Varric, wait, we can’t,”  
  
Varric’s heated gaze met hers and held as he sucked her collarbone.  
  
_Oh, not fair._  
  
“You can’t let _me_ be the voice of reason.” She gasped out at a particularly hard bite. “Aveline’s gonna be so pissed.”  
  
The name must have tugged at something in the Varric’s mind. He pulled back, removing his hand, achingly slow, her hips following. “Please, no one has time to undo that armor. I’m just taking back something that belongs to me.” His words were accusatory but his tone was light.  
  
“Hm? She sat up, doing her best to catch her breath, when her eyes caught on an object in his hand.  
  
_Oh. His ribbon._  
  
“I _knew_ you took this. Sneak.”  
  
She had kept it around her thigh wearing it as a garter of sorts. He must have untied it while she was (rightfully) distracted. “I’ll buy you another, it’s just the one.”  
  
He brought the ribbon to his nose inhaling deeply, not breaking eye contact. “I like this one.” He took out his own band, staring at her through a veil of blonde fringe. “I think I’ll keep it.”  
  
“Filthy.” She grinned, pulling his hair up with _her_ band and leaning in to kiss him again.  
  
Their lips barely touched when reality set upon them in the form of a door at the opposite end of the room. They pulled apart like a shot, weapons drawn, as it rattled with tremendous force, then stopped, just as suddenly.

Hawke’s breeches drooped slightly.  
  
Varric laughed loudly and Hawke couldn’t stop herself joining in. “That’s a story for the table.”  
  
“Not the first time.” Hawke quipped, bringing herself to rights.  
  
Varric looked at her, confused, before revelation dawned on his face. “That’s _right_! That Nevarran assassin!”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Really, if you’re going to hire a killer, _why_ not spring for an Antivan?”  
  
“It boggles the mind.”  
  
The two shifted their full attention as the door shook again, accompanied by a loud _banging_. A scared, well-dressed woman fell through.  
  
“Are you real?” The newcomer rubbed her eyes.  
  
Hawke’s first instinct was to jape. Then she remembered she was in a haunted house and the woman was probably out of her wits with fright by this point. She opted for sympathy.  
  
“Yes, we’re real.” Hawke assured her, lifting a curved blade. “And, look! We brought friends!”

Maybe a _little_ japing.  
  
“You’ve got to get out of here before it comes back!” The woman clung to the front of Hawke’s armor, hands wrapping in her belts. Hawke laughed nervously, slowly removing her fingers one by one.  
  
“I’m going to assume that _it_ is at least something to stick my blade in,” the woman drew back at Hawke’s words, “oh, not you! You know what, nevermind. What is this it you’re running from? Tell me it’s something small and soft.”  
  
“It’s a ghost!”  
  
“Lovely.” Hawke turned her gaze heavenward. “A ghost of…?”  
  
“A giant hulking stone beast!” The ground shook beneath them. “Maker, no, it’s starting again!” The woman shouldered between them and out the opposite door, Varric’s gaze following her until he turned on the spot.  
  
“A giant rock ghost we can’t stab. This should be fun. Come on, let’s hope the others haven’t found it first.”  
  
When they reached the open staircase of the estate, the others were waiting with a mixture of impatience and concern.  
  
“We felt a rumble,” Merrill rushed at Hawke, stopping just short of barreling her over. “We thought something had happened.”  
  
“ _Has_ something happened?” Aveline raised a curious brow at the pair.  
  
"Old junk room." Hawke replied breezily.  
  
"Family heirlooms. Boring shit." Varric tip toed around the truth like a master.  
  
Aveline gazed between them suspiciously. When she opened her mouth to protest, a growl echoed across the walls. She looked towards the ceiling with a quiet, “Tell me you heard that, Hawke.”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“You know, that didn’t make me feel better.”  
  
“Giant rock ghost monster, no time to explain!” She drew her blades and ran to the top of the stairs.  
  
"You could have opened with that, Hawke!" Even wielding a broadsword, the woman could scold like her mother.  
  
"Sorry! Just be prepared for,”  
  
“Oh, Fenedhis!” Merrill cursed.  
  
“Yeah,” Hawke looked below them at the, well, _giant_ golem in the center of the great hall. “That.”

* * *

The times she had fought Golems before, she had thought, _They don’t go down as hard as I imagined!_ and even, _You’d think, being stone, they wouldn’t tire as easily. Strange._

These thoughts she regretted now, striking the final blow to a somewhat more ethereal Golem. She felt as though they had been fighting for _hours_ and the beast just wouldn’t _die_. Sometimes it would even _rest_ in a kind of trance, letting Shades do its busy work.  
  
_Bloody stone menace._ She thought, with some venom.  
  
She turned to take stock of the rest. Aveline was beating down a beam that had fallen to block their exit and Merrill fell heavily on a barrel, dusting off her knees. Varric was around the corner of the stairs, out of sight, but he was swearing, loudly. Swearing was good. _Swearing_ meant he was alive and, better, angry enough to stay that way. When she rounded the corner to find him, he had bent to pick something off the ground.  
  
“I was right. This,” he said as she reached him, “this is a piece of the idol.”  
  
Her eyes widened marginally. It was true. In his hands was a glowing piece of red lyrium. “That explains the...” Hawke trailed off, wiggling her fingers in what she deemed to be a _spooky_ way.  
  
“I should have known Bartrand would lie to me. Of _course_ he’d keep a piece of the statue for himself.”  
  
“That’s our Bartrand.” She joked. “Go ahead and put it down. We should be able to carry it to Sandal at least. You think he can handle this stuff?”  
  
She closed a hand around it and something _snapped_. The tendons in her arm stretched, her fingers gripped. She heard… _singing_.  
  
She tore herself away, holding her hand to her chest as though it were burned. It still thrummed with energy.  
  
“You wanna give this to Enchantment Boy? So he can do what with it? Take it to Orlais? Think of what _we_ could do with this, here, in Kirkwall.” Varric’s smile was beatific, eerily blissfil in the red light. “You want communications?” He held the piece aloft. “Imagine the doors this could open. And I know you want to help the mages, Hawke, don’t think I haven’t noticed. I notice _everything_ about you.”  
  
“I don’t,” Hawke kept her voice low, aware of the other’s proximity, “I don’t _want_ it. It’s dangerous, Varric. You _know_ it’s dangerous. Think about Bartrand.”  
  
“I’m not Bartrand, Hawke.” He replied, accusingly. “The idol drove him crazy, but this is just one tiny piece. I need this thing! Six years of my life have gone into this. My only hope of finding out what happened to my brother is _with this shard_.” Varric took a step forward and Hawke saw his pupils, dilated an impossible amount.  
  
_I need this thing!_  
  
“Varric,” Hawke straightened, pulling her voice from her stomach, “drop it. _Now._ ”  
  
_I'm all in._  
  
She grabbed his wrist pressing on the rapid pulse hard.  
  
The dwarf visibly deflated, his grip loosening and the shard falling to the floor. Hawke used a sleeve to scoop it into one of her pouches.  
  
“Take it,” Varric grit out. He had turned his back above her. “It’s your problem now.”  
  
“Varric,” Hawke called after him.  
  
“Let’s go, I think I could use some air.”

* * *

The next morning, the lyrium was out of sight, likely hidden amongst Sandal and Bodahn’s things. Whatever Sandal did with it, it must have worked as she couldn’t hear anything, beyond Islen’s familiar humming, and all objects were firmly on the ground.

She tucked Islen into a red coat and made her way to Lowtown. At the bottom of the long steps, she realised, quite suddenly, that she wasn't ready to see Varric yet.

“Are you hungry, pip?”

“Please.” Islen turned pleading, gray blue eyes toward her.

“Cunning. You learned that one fast.” She pinched the girl's cheek eliciting a series of high-pitched giggles.

“Omma, no. No!” Islen held onto her mother’s fingers, looking at her very seriously. Hawke stared back for a moment, smiling a little, about to pull away.

Then Islen farted.

“Oh, you little,” Hawke groused. Islen was breathless with renewed laughter. “You keep doing that, I’m going to make you walk.”

“Down!”

“All right, but you’re walking at _least_ halfway.” Hawke detached the child from her side, her feet flailing wildly before they touched the ground. “Do you remember what halfway is?”

Islen looked up at her, nose scrunched adorably small. “Hag.”

 _She tried._ Hawke fought a laugh.“That’s okay, neither do I. Let’s count steps. One, two, three,”

“One,” Islen repeated, “two, three,”

Their feet took them east, towards the docks.

* * *

Hawke settled with Islen and a bowl of grapes at the end of a well-worn pier.

"Such pretty birds at my docks today." Isabela approached from her right and Hawke startled at her voice.

Hawke turned her face skyward. "Looks like the same crap gulls to me."

"Crapulls!"

"Oh take a compliment, you." Isabela stooped to lift a babbling Islen into her arms. “Is something wrong?”

She looked at her fruit. Isabela had always been highly observant but sometimes she was downright spooky. "Is it that obvious?"

Isabela seemed to weigh this, looking her friend up and down. “No.” She sat awkwardly with a child half-crawling over her shoulder. “But I had to help Varric up the stairs last night and that is not an experience I missed.”

Hawke popped a grape into her mouth. “Is he alright?”

“I imagine he’ll be a touch embarrassed, but a headache never hurt anyone. Besides, dwarves are known for their sturdy constitution.”

“He smells that swill all day. how is he not immune to hangovers by now?”

“A wonder.” Isabela leaned on a hand, watching her with a knowing smile.

“He told you what happened?”

“I got bits and pieces.” She laughed. “Very slurred.”

Hawke moved the bowl between them. “I always thought, if father or Bethany were possessed, I’d just deal with it. By the time father died, I just thought I could handle it. Killing? Guilt? Easy.” She admitted. “I remember nightmares about it. Standing over them, telling Carver," she pressed her lips together. "I never let myself think about what it'd be like...seeing them so different. Seeing them so changed."

"See, I was the opposite." Isabela peeled a grape passing the inside to Islen. "Killing was the good dreams. _My_ nightmares," she coughed, "little ears about. Anyway, people changing? Any power can do that.”

Hawke's smile was grim. "I think I can name a few besides demons and magic, yeah."

“That lyrium,” Isabela let her feet trail the water, “scary stuff. I’m glad to see the back of it.”

Hawke pulled a deep breath through her nose. “I guess I should go talk to him, hm?”

Isabela pulled Islen into her lap. “Let me look after the beast. She doesn’t need to be there for a fight.”

“We're not going to fight.” She considered this. “We’re _probably_ not going to fight.” Isabela gave her a patient look. Hawke sighed, bending down to brush a kiss across the top of Islen’s head. “Be good for Isabela.”

“Ssssss,” Islen looked up and Isabela drummed fingers on her head and mimicked the girl.

Hawke turned away from the hissing, walking back the way she had come, towards the Hanged Man.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out a bit later than anticipated thanks to emergency surgery for, of all things, an ectopic pregnancy, eesh! Thank you for being patient and, as always, to my lovely beta kazzashepard for keeping me on track and also being a kickass roommate during my recovery! Also just a special thanks to my husband for taking care of me and being generally amazing.

_9:36 Dragon, Firstfall_

They weren’t going to fight, Hawke had decided before she ever left the estate.

Hawke was helpful, or she tried, at least. She’d go so far as to call herself dependable, though this assessment was largely based on the statement of others. She was a Champion, now, and as much as she used it to her advantage, there _were_ times that she was reminded; the word held meaning. People looked to her so much that they often overlooked those standing beside her, a mistake she made herself, at times.

She _needed_ her friends. Balanced, logical, and open-minded where she wasn’t. Powerful in ways she never would be, and fallible, like her.

It had been frightening, seeing Varric so...different. He was fallible, yes, but he hid it well. Stayed put together, so she could fall apart. It’s not as though she thought he always had to be such, she had just...forgotten he could be anything but.

So they weren’t going to fight because she was _scared_. Not because, _for once_ Varric needed _her_.

Contrary to the picture Isabela had painted, Hawke found Varric at the bar of the Hanged Man, very happily relaying the tale of the Bone Pit Dragon. Voice animated, arms more so, he faltered in the telling as Hawke stepped into view.

It was near impossible to avoid peevishly spying on herself in Kirkwall, particularly at the Hanged Man where the bulk of the stories were spun. As familiar as her name on other’s lips had become she still did her best to avoid strange campfire tales of her deeds where she could. At this point, she wasn’t sure which were worse, the ones involving _peculiar_ love affairs with beasts or those with a somber ring of truth to them. In this version, it seemed as if Varric’s raging dragon was on it’s last leg, quite literally (by his account, they had chopped the others off in quite grisly ways), so she nodded at Corff and disappeared upstairs.

As predicted, she didn’t have to keep herself entertained for long, Varric appearing a scant few minutes behind her. “That was far more flattering than I’m used to hearing.”

“Please,” she heard him scoff and turned slightly from her spot on the table, “I do nothing but flatter you. Any other tales that reach your ears are not spawned from _my_ tongue.”

“I heard you had a _wild_ night.” Hawke watched him fall into his seat at the end of the table, leaning back and crossing his hands. He was certainly _acting_ relaxed. To anyone else, it would have been believable enough to let it slide. But he wasn’t _smiling_ , and he wouldn’t look at her. “I’m glad you’re _better_ now.” The latter came out as a question, much as she intended it to be reassuring.

She watched carefully as Varric’s hand twitched. He laughed, lightly. “Ah, yeah. I didn’t get much sleep.” He admitted, expression pinched. “It was just a _piece_ and I can’t stop thinking about it, what we could do with it. I fell asleep and there it was,”

“They’re just nightmares, Varric,” Hawke’s laugh sounded relieved to her own ears, “everyone has them. You were out of your head.” Hawke crossed her arms.

Varric’s look was dark, unsettling. “No, I _wasn’t_. I knew exactly what I was doing.” He rubbed his eyes. “Or...it felt like I did, anyway.”

“I was there, Varric.” Biting her lip, she reached for calm. “You were...you said it _talked_ to you."

“It's like the lyrium showed a road map of possibilities, things I couldn't imagine." He spoke over her. "At the time it seemed completely reasonable, like if I didn't follow that path right at that moment, it would slip through my fingers.” Hawke uncrossed her arms, leaning back. Varric scratched his neck. "That stuff is _dangerous_ , Hawke."

"Yeah, _no shit_." She muttered, wondering if she looked as useless as she felt. “Honestly, I could _barely_ sleep knowing it was under my roof last night. We’ve dealt with this before. If you’re going to make a decision about it, I want you to be in your right mind. Not just _feel_ like you are.”

Varric nodded. “Thanks for keeping it out of my hands."

Hawke could see the lingering uncertainty in his brow, despite his words. She bounced off the table and moved in front of Varric’s chair, leaning between his legs and grinning down at him expectantly. He met her gaze, confused until she reached for his arms.

“Look at that!” She examined his hands in mock-shock. “Two _wonderfully_ free hands.” She placed them firmly on her breasts, running her fingers up through his hair and pulling him forward roughly. “If you stop this time, I'll bite,” she whispered, breath ragged at his ear, “and not in the fun way.

She felt him smile against her jaw and, with deft hands, began undoing her _many_ buckles. She heard him curse under his breath after the third.

“If we had done this _in the bath_ ,” she said, sing-song.

“Shut up,” he turned, slightly, to kiss the swell of her breast, “or _I’ll_ bite.”

“You know,” she smiled coyly, thinking about how little incentive that actually was at the moment, “never mind,” she bent down to bite his bottom lip, “shutting up.”

* * *

“No nightmares?” Hawke spoke low as dawn broke through the curtain. She felt Varric’s beard scratch against her shoulder blades as he mumbled into her back.

“I dreamed I slept with a Goddess.”

“Oh?” She felt her face dimple. “Must have been _some_ dream.”

“Nightmare. She had long talons and dragon’s wings.”

She slapped his hand, resting low on her stomach. “Asshole.”

“The reality’s better.” He continued when he stopped shaking with half-held laughter. “ _I_ slept with a Champion.”

Hawke tucked her chin in, face heating fiercely. “Damn right.” She replied, squeezing his hand.

* * *

When she woke for the second time, the sun was higher, mid-morning at least, and Hawke tried to leave Varric to his sleep. She parted the curtain and stepped from the bed in near silence, only to have calloused hands pulled her back. She giggled. “I have to go.”

“Islen has bottles. And mushy food. I know, I find it in my hair often enough.” Varric mumbled into the crook of her hip as she pulled on her boots.

“I know but I miss her.” She pushed his head up and he groaned.

She looked for any of the fear from the night before, but when their eyes met, there was only a smile in them. “Told you you were a good mother.”

“I’ve had help.” She hopped up. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he struggled to sit up, “let me get my shirt on at least.”

She pressed her mouth firmly against the corner of his lips and felt them curve upward under her own. “Where’s the fun in that?”

* * *

Hawke found Isabela at the Hightown Market, staring intently at a table of wooden toys.

“Where’s Islen?” Hawke felt a brief moment of panic well in her chest.

“Good morning, trouble,” Isabela barely glanced up as she came to stand beside her.

“Isabela,” Hawke’s focus was as sharp as a knife, “my _daughter_? The one in your care?”

“Oh, hm?” Isabela looked around her, even going so far as to duck her head under the table for a moment. “I’m sure the beast was here a moment ago. Must have ran at the sound of your footfalls.”

Hawke raised a skeptical brow.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.” When Hawke continued to stare her down, she chuckled. “She’s with Fenris.”

A sound, like choking, came from the back of Hawke’s throat. She coughed. “Really?”

“Yes. I needed to do some shopping, he offered to look after her, in the meanwhile.” A warm hand fell over her own and she met Isabela’s eyes. “I never would have passed up the chance to care for her in another circumstance. But he kept _looking_ at her, like, oh I don’t know.” Hawke squeezed her hand, urging her to continue. “Sometimes he’ll get this _look_ like he’s steeling himself for a very difficult conversation. I think he’d act differently with her if I weren’t around. So I went for it.”

“We agreed, before she was born, that he would tutor her if things turned out...differently. I think he meant to use that as an excuse to see her or...bond.”

“And now, everything is fine.” Isabela finished.

“For now.”

“So pessimistic.” Isabela teased. She picked up one of the toys, some sort of windmill, and picked at the wood. “Bonding. I’m glad he asked.”

“Me too.” Hawke let go of her hand and stretched. “ _Surprised_ , but glad.”

Isabela looked past her where Varric was walking towards them from another stall. “Morning, handsome.”

“Rivaini.” He nodded. “Where’s,”

“With Fenris.” Both women interrupted simultaneously.

“Okay.” Varric smiled a little. “I’ve got Guild business. Turns out they actually want me to _show up_ once in a while”

“The _nerve_.” Hawke shook her head in mock outrage.

Isabela eyed them, tone dry. “I’m glad to see the time you use my babysitting services isn’t all for Champion’s work.”

“You know what they say about all work.” Hawke replied, placating.

“In fact, wasn’t it _you_ that said it, Rivaini?” Varric stroked his chin thoughtfully. Isabela rolled her eyes. “Go on, I’ve seen the elf try to feed Islen. Save him from the perils of breakfast.”

The two very pointedly ignored Isabela as Hawke met Varric for a soft kiss, though she couldn’t avoid the other woman’s narrowed gaze when a second, longer one was pressed against her shoulder. Isabela’s smile was cat-like as they watched him leave.

“All those times he turned me down.” Isabela tutted, threading her arm through Hawke’s. “I thought he said he wasn’t into humans.”

“Human? My _dear_ , haven’t you heard?” Hawke winked. “ _I’m_ a Goddess.”

Isabela looked at her, smile slowly spreading. “Come, love. Let’s walk slowly and speak _loudly_.”

* * *

In the end, Isabela had bought Islen a ‘functional’ boat. Or one that would float and whose wheels would spin, in any case. It looked charming, sitting in the small bowl of water Fenris had poured and Islen couldn’t take her eyes off of it.

“You spoil her.” Hawke scolded lightly.

“No more than anyone else.” Isabela grinned. “Besides, I want to be her favorite. Maybe she’ll come sailing with me one day.”

“That much is certain.” Hawke chuckled, going to stand in the door with Fenris. He was watching the proceedings with an openly curious expression and...something else. He turned to her, brow furrowed.

“She has a way of making the sea sound more inviting than the last time I found myself upon it.”

“Well the last time, you were a slave.” Hawke shrugged. “That’s bound to taint your view.”

“True,” Fenris conceded with a laugh, “but Isabela talks about it like a good friend.”

“Never met many sailors in Tevinter, I imagine?”

“Not many, no.” He gave an amused snort.

“You look as though you’re about to have a very serious conversation with me.” She taunted. When his expression remained unchanged, she stepped into the hallway. “Did something happen to Islen?”

“No,” Fenris rushed to reassure her, “nothing like what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know, I’m a mother, now. I can think an awful lot.” Hawke countered.

“She wasn’t _hurt_ , I mean.” He clarified. She nodded for him to continue. “Islen reacts...strangely to my tattoos.”

Hawke’s eyes traced the lines on the skin that were visible to her. “Strange how?”

“She was _singing_.”

 _Though she is no mage, magic sings through her._ Justice’s voice echoed in her mind. She tuned it out, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, she hums a lot. I don’t know where she learns half of the songs.”

“And that doesn’t concern you?”

“Why should it?” She lifted a shoulder. “Children make up songs all the time.”

“That’s not it.” Fenris shook his head. “It’s as though she was singing _to them_. I think she can hear them.”

“Hear them. Your tattoos?” Hawke repeated, stupidly.

“She kept looking at me, like I should be hearing something too. Like we were having a conversation I was only hearing a part of.” He sighed. “I have a feeling about this, Hawke.”

Hawke stared at him, then back to where Isabela was showing Islen how to make the boat move. She looked so small, so happy. She wanted to ignore the conversation, to brush off Fenris’ concerns. But his _feelings_ had led them away from trouble before, or into it.

_This is her blood. Like a drug. Like a templar._

“Okay, _okay_ ,” she rubbed her temples, “Maker, this is a batch of strange I hope you’re wrong about.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll have to talk to… _him_ about this, you know that?”

Fenris crossed his arms. “Anders has been nothing but helpful regarding Islen.”

“Yeah, he said you two were building better bridges.” She quirked her lips into a smile. “Unfortunately that’s not who I meant.”

“Ah.” Something in his face twitched and, for a moment, Hawke saw teeth. “I won’t interfere.”

“Thanks,” she chuckled. “Oh, and there’s something I should probably tell you.” She stepped back into the doorway. “I’m seeing Varric. We’re together.”

“That’s wonderful.” The bright smile looked foreign on her friend’s face.

“Really?” Hawke rubbed her hands together, fighting a blush at her next words. “I mean, thank you. I just...it was considerate, talking to me about you and Isabela.” She regained her composure just as he lost his, scratching his nose and looking at the far wall. “Completely unnecessary, but, I appreciated it.”

“I often worried about Islen.” Hawke pursed her lips, a retort hot on her tongue. “Not how she would be raised without a father, but to know that life only to learn I was silent beside her this whole time. I would feel a coward.”

“You don’t need to, Fenris.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “She’ll understand.”

“Perhaps I just wanted it to be easier for her.”

“Oh please don’t make her cry again.” Isabela came to stand in front of them, bouncing the girl on her hip. “Is uncle Fenris making mama cry? He’s good at that.”

Fenris looked outraged, reaching out to pluck Islen from Isabela’s arms. “Do not teach her that.”

Isabela laughed, hands on her hips and Islen joined in, tiny fists balled at her sides. They settled to talk about her toy, the new regulations on food in Lowtown, the lax security by the docks. Hawke had almost forgotten about what Fenris had told her until Islen placed a hand on his neck and began to hum behind a sweet smile.

* * *

Arms crossed on the writing table, Hawke watched Varric play with Islen in the center of the main room. At least, Hawke _assumed_ it was playing. Settled around Islen were three stuffed toys (a dollie, her dragon, and some woefully sewn creature Varric found at a novelty stall) and Varric between them. In one of the habits that she had adopted as she learned to speak, she pointed to each item, babbling directions such as, “Buggery!”, and “Milk!”, looking to Varric expectantly until...well, until he did whatever it was she _meant_ for him to do. At which point he would receive Islen’s rare _nod of satisfaction_.

“Blight!”

Varric raised a brow.

“Blight, _please_.” Islen amended.

Varric held the dragon out to her, something approaching dread on his face.

Islen remained _impassive_.

“How is the Guild? Anything _new and exciting_ I should know about?” Hawke asked over her daughter’s continued cries.

“Shady, back door dealings, a few people shouted. I slept through most of it."

“I asked what was _new_.”

"Well there was _one_ exciting development." Varric waited until curious eyes turned to look at him. "Apparently some of the more...illustrious members of the community aren't happy with some of the gossip they've been hearing." Hawke's stare turned blank. "About us."

"What about _us_?" As light as her tone was, Varric recognized the danger there.

"Oh the usual drivel. Last of my line. High profile, _human_ lover." He flipped the dragon on its head and Islen gave a grunt of displeasure. “Don’t worry, it’s not the first time I’ve pissed them off.”

_We were going to get married._

_Family or love. I chose family._

"They have a lot of _rules_." She said with a harsh chuckle. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“You’re a commodity. You have the people’s favor. You keep them _hopeful_ and that’s something the Guild doesn’t want to mess with. Happy people spend money and if there’s one thing they won’t risk, it’s economic instability.”

“No one’s going to drop a tunnel on me, then?” She quipped.

Varric threw back his head with a laugh. “With your luck, who’d need to?”

“Fair point.”

As always, Varric seemed to understand where her thoughts had taken her adding, a little more seriously, “I don’t have any family left to disinherit me and you,” he looked at Islen, “humans don’t have clans and I doubt Sunshine’s would send strongly worded letters to the kalnas if you did.”

“There’s always Uncle Gamlen to worry about.”

“When did he learn to write?” Varric smirked. He stood and walked to her, Islen toddling after at a slower pace. “If it worries you, carry this.” The heavy signet she had purchased years ago dropped on the writing desk with a thud.

“I’m not worried.” She protested weakly, examining the ring.

“Still,” Varric rubbed the back of his neck, “ _Champion_ might protect you with most of the Guild, but there are always opportunists in Kirkwall. This could stop some of the smarter thugs who know I pay better.”

“Death works too.” She responded with a teasing lilt. “Does this make me a Tethras?” Varric’s eyes widened comically mouth agape until Hawke took pity on him with a noisy kiss to his brow.

“ _Haha._ ” He butted at her chin with the top of his head, unwilling or unable to meet her gaze.

“Haha.” Islen mimed, pointing at Hawke. Hawke bent down to nip at the tip of her daughter’s finger until the girl dissolved into a fit of giggles and ran behind Varric, wresting the dragon from his hand to play with its wings. She watched Islen play, eyebrows drawn together. “If they come after her, I'm going to save you the hassle and kill them myself.”

He finally met her gaze with a decisive nod. “That’s reasonable.”

“Cheese sticks.” Islen repeated, seriously. She tugged at Varric’s sleeve, “Pappa, blight.”

"I don't know what you want me to _do_." He muttered, a little desperately. Sitting down between the desk and Islen’s impossible challenge, he half turned. “Oh and this was to be delivered to you." Hawke reached out to take the letter he had fished from his breast pocket. “I got it before the meeting, but I thought the Guild stuff was more important,”

“It’s from Bianca.”

“That’s what it says.”

Hawke stared at the letter dumbly. “Why is Bianca writing to me?”

“I don’t know." Hawke raised a skeptical brow. “Really!” He continued defensively. “I was instructed to let you read it, and not to open it lest my fingers fall from my hands.”

She grabbed her letter opener, tearing through the seal and scanning through the lines on the page. “You haven’t read it?”

“I just told you I didn’t.”

“No,” she countered, “you said she told you not to.”

“Fine, I cross my heart I didn’t read it.”

She flipped the page over. “Huh.”

“Well?”

She folded the letter back up and slid it into one of the top drawers. “She’s opening a shop in Orlais.” She said, joining Varric on the floor and pulling Islen to her.

“Good for her,” Varric moved the doll in front of the dragon, “she needs to expand.”

“She seems nice.”

“What?” Varric’s head snapped up. “Yes she’s, well trouble. Honestly.”

“I think we could be good friends.”

“You two?” Varric reached over to take Islen into his own lap, knocking over the novelty toy with his elbow in the process. “Try not to take over Thedas. At least until Islen’s out of the house.”

“I make no promises.”

Islen gave a nod of satisfaction.

 _Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall,_  
_Thanks for the extra work, the gears in that contraption alone were spectacular. Let me know if you need anything else done. I’m opening a shop in Orlais. You have some people heading out that way, right? The enchanter? Can’t say I prefer working with his sort. Enchanters can be unstable, in my experience. But if there’s ever a bit of work, good to know there’s a trustworthy dwarf in the area._  
_Anyway, it’s probably a good idea to get him away from Kirkwall about now. A dwarven enchanter? Strange._  
_I don’t know if you’re expecting a warning, I’m not a writer like Varric. I like making things and I make good shit, you know that. Good shit that gets people killed. I guess that’s a sort of warning._  
_But I know Varric better than anyone, and he wouldn’t stay with a louse or a whiner._  
_So, I guess you must be a decent sort._  
_I’ve seen you, you know. Not like I could avoid you in Kirkwall, but sometimes I’d look for you. Varric talked about you, a lot, so I was curious. Never worked up the nerve to introduce myself but then, that’s probably for the best, in hindsight._  
_Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, as it is now._  
_Bianca Davri_  
_P.S.-He really loves that kid. Any danger he brings to her he’s gonna put on himself. He’s stupid like that._  
_Take care of him._

* * *

Hawke held Islen’s hands, swinging her down the steps to Anders’ clinic the next morning, knowing she had put the visit off for as long as her subconscious would allow.

“Pip, you’re getting big.” She muttered under her breath.

“Omma, up.” Islen bounced a few times until Hawke lifted her to the last step.

“What’s the rage, spirit mage?” She turned a column, only to see Anders bent low in conversation with a very frustrated Merrill.

“Merle.” Islen wrapped around Hawke’s leg, pointing to the couple. Hawke reached a hand down to ruffle her daughter’s unruly, black hair, curling behind her ears now. _She could use a trim,_ She thought, absently.

Merrill stood with a shake of her head almost as they reached her. Her face softened at Islen and she bent to peck her on the cheek, but whatever had passed between the two mages had done enough to her temper that she seemed unable to say anything to Hawke as she left the clinic in the opposite direction.

“Why are you upsetting our friends?” Hawke joked, lifting Islen and placing her on a barrel between them. “That’s my job.”

“Merrill wants to use blood magic to find out where this disease, if it _is that_ , is spreading from.” Anders said, his face a storm cloud. “She’s also trying to push for her own medicinal wing. I simply told her my feelings on the matter.”

Hawke scoffed. “Very politely, I’m sure.”

“It’s not as though she can’t hold her own. Viper’s tongue, that one.” Hawke leaned against a wall, waiting patiently as Anders calmed down in stages. “I may have been a little harsh.”

“You can apologize at your lute lessons.” Hawke slapped his knee. “She likes those noisemakers from the street vendor near the Viscount’s steps.”

“I might start with a simple I’m sorry,”

“As you like,” Hawke shrugged, remembering her talk with the elf in Lowtown. "She's just trying to find her place here that's all."

“Is this a social visit?” Anders let a little spark of magic circle in the air in front of Islen’s face, to her delight.

“More or less…”

Anders looked bemused, but pleased. “Well, I'm glad you're here, I wanted to check on Islen.”

Islen enjoyed her visits to the clinic because it was muddy and Anders would do magic for her. Hawke enjoyed them because it was nearly the only time she saw Anders forget about the rest of the world, if only to play with her daughter.

If she tried very hard, she could pretend that Anders never went to a Circle. Or maybe, after he ran away, instead of a spirit, he met a wonderful person, like her father had. They settled down had a baby, and he looked like this every day.

But her father had never looked like that. Not every day. They struggled, they hid, on the run before Lothering. Malcolm was scared, for himself for them, even when he was happy. Life was better, probably. Better than Anders’, surely, but a mage could never escape the Circle’s reach.

And, like that, the illusion was shattered.

“Actually I have a question, for Justice.”

Islen had moved to balance her hands on Anders’ shoulders and he reached out to steady her. When she was safely moved from the barrell to his person, Anders looked at Hawke, concerned. “All right.” Light flared around him and Islen clapped wildly.

“Oh, I didn’t mean just,” Hawke panicked, “now...hello, Justice.”

“Speak, mortal.”

“We need to work on your people skills.” Hawke reached, and landed short, of humor. When a response remained forthcoming she continued. “Fenris brought something to my attention. It might be nothing, but I figured you’d be the expert.” She didn’t know a better way to broach the subject, so she just came out with it, “Islen’s been humming.”

“I do not know much about mortal children. Is this uncommon?”

“She sings _to_ his tattoos. Like a conversation, he said. I know we talked about,” Hawke bit her lip, “her blood before. You said she had _something_ in her. Do you know anything, anything at all?”

Justice looked to the girl standing on his lap with wobbly legs. Hawke watched him with razor-sharp eyes. “I have heard this music. She is drawn to magic. She finds it fascinating. Perhaps whatever song the lyrium sings is one she hears, as well.”

She closed her eyes. “That’s terrifying, thank you.”

“Short chat?” When she looked up, it was into the face of Anders, once more.

“I guess.” She chuckled. “Not one for small talk, is he?”

“Afraid not.” Anders winced. “Lyrium, hm? So our first guess was right. It was smart of you, talking to him.”

“I don’t _think_ she’s had a _negative_ reaction to potions or her ring,” she leaned over, pulling out the ring Varric had bought her for her first nameday. Anders examined it under the lamplight for a moment until Islen snatched it back, possessively. “But living with Sandal for as long as we have, or did,” she amended with a sigh, “put her near some pretty interesting things, raw lyrium included. I may not have noticed if Fenris hadn’t said anything.”

“Or you may have. It’s obviously not affecting her now.” Anders observed, holding a light blue flask by the neck and letting Islen hold the rounded bottom. “See? No music.”

It was strangely reassuring, even if most of her questions remained unanswered. “How about you, are you okay?” She changed the subject.

“As well as can be expected,” Anders set the flask aside, lowering his gaze. “What makes you ask?”

“Just been a little quiet on your front, is all. Usually it’s _Hawke, do this, Hawke, listen to this_. I know they _say_ no news is good news, but _they’ve_ obviously never been to Kirkwall.”

“I imagine there is enough noise in your life at the moment.” He lifted Islen by her armpits, moving her back to her seat on the barrel.

“I don’t know, her night light works wonders.” Anders’ grin was stupidly happy at that, though he seemed to remember himself almost immediately.

“The mage underground has been all but wiped out by Meredith. I assumed that disassociating myself with them would help.” He sighed. “It just took away one of their protectors.”

 _That explains why Meredith's too busy to go after Bethany._ Hawke had suspected as much but the truth still stung.

Anders shook his head. “Sorry, I _am_ glad Bethany’s escaped the Chantry. It’s hard to remember the little bit of good we’ve done when so many allies are being wiped off the map.”

“Orsino knows about Bethany. He seemed...pleased.” Anders seemed to weigh this and toss it out. "He may be useful.” Hawke supplied.

“For what?” Anders snorted, smiling lightly.

“He knows what I did, he knows what Bethany did. He seems to care about the mages. He may be an asset for you. I don’t know how, I just have this…” She ran a hand through her hair. “So many ideas that make sense until you put them together, _but_ really good ideas!” Hawke smiled widely. “We could do _more_.”

“It’s too late,” he sighed, “It would take something truly catastrophic to change people’s thinking now.”

Catastrophic. Hawke thought nervously, picking Islen up. “I hope you’re wrong, Anders.” He lifted his chin in slight acknowledgement and she bent to hug him. He hugged a little easier now. “Thanks…for the chat. Don’t do anything stupid without me, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

“Anders isn’t telling me something.”

“Duck!” Varric loosed a bolt over her shoulder and into a bug as big as her head. Hawke grimaced, removing the arrow with a squelch and tossing it back. “That sounds normal.”

It was night. They had come up through the sewers and were in one of the newly repaired warehouses at the docks, by the smell of things.

“I don't appreciate being kept in the dark.”

“Says the woman who tried to carry out an escape plan nearly single-handed." Varric murmured.

"What was that?"

"I said why don't you just ask him?"

"Because _as_ someone who _did_ pull off an escape plan nearly single-handedly, I appreciate the secrecy."

Varric was laughing silently, his eyes dancing. "No you don't."

Hawke plunged a dagger into a spider with a little too much force. "No, I don’t. It’s _killing_ me." She removed the blade, wiping it on her thigh and looking for any more of the flying beasties. “What are we doing here? Not that I don’t love spending time with you, but if this is your idea of a date night, I’ve got to tell you,”

“Fudging cargo records,” he groaned, “I hate owing Isabela. She makes favors so _complicated_.”

“She didn’t mention anything about giant bugs, did she?”

“She wouldn’t, would she?” He helped her lift a beam and wedge it in front of the bigger of the two exits.”...what were we talking about?”

“Anders.”

“Right. I’m surprised you have time to worry about Blondie.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Hedge witchery, chatting with _Justice_ , and I _heard_ about your little visit to the Gallows.”

She narrowed her gaze at Sarge, happily tearing the wings from another beast. “Blabbermutt.”

“Not that I disapprove, mind.”

“Left!”

“Thanks.” Varric sidestepped her blade, ignoring the crunching sound behind him. “I’d just _appreciate_ a head’s up if we’re going into another thrilling adventure led by the dashing, Champion Hawke.”

“Dashing,” she preened, “I like that. Don’t worry,” she added, more seriously, “if something’s happening you’ll be the first to know.”

“Well that’s reassuring.” He said sounding not reassured in the slightest. “Sure you won’t let Bianca know first?”

“Oh, _please_ , don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

Silence.

“It was _one_ letter, Varric. _And_ she wrote me first!”

“You didn’t have to write _back_!”

Hawke watched, amused as Varric mused his hair wildly. “It’s about the communications...thing. She told me to come to her with any new ideas, that’s what I’m doing.”

He shuddered. “I’d just like to state, for the record, that you two talking creeps me out.” He bent down to pick the lock of the second door and jumped back when it swung open. “The papers are supposed to be in here.”

“Varric, speaking of favors,” Hawke plucked nervously at the wood grains on the door as Varric searched the room, “can you move some of my money over to the donations for the city guard?”

“Why?” He asked, suspicion evident in his tone.

“I’m going to talk to Aveline.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re coming up on the home stretch, here! Everything is written and being beta’d now, so I’ve added how many more chapters there will be. This fic got a lot of subscribers recently, so just in case, I’m also on tumblr, also at feoplepeel!  
> Thank you, kazzashepard for betaing and everyone here who reads and leaves your support.

_9:37 Dragon, Wintermarch_

“Absolutely not.” Aveline crossed her arms.

“ _Please_ , Aveline? Anders has all but given up down there. It’s a pox. What’s going to happen when it starts spreading upwards?”

“So you want me to send _my_ women and men?”

“Just to check.” Hawke clarified. “There’s a rumor it’s Templars, stamping out the city’s seedy underbelly.”

“That’s ridiculous, Hawke.”

“I don’t know, have you ever listened to Meredith talk?” Aveline gave her a hard stare. “You’ve said it yourself, you don’t get down there enough! Just see, with your own eyes, if this is a normal sickness or, you know, something else.”

“And if it isn’t?” Aveline leaned in. “If it’s the Templars or mages or just some crazed lunatic like that Quentin.” Hawke’s fists tightened at her sides.

“Then you do your job and _arrest_ them.”

“Until you have more proof than _Anders has a funny feeling_ , I’m sorry, I can’t risk my men for this.”

“I’ll do it, Captain.” Hawke’s gaze was drawn to the doorway where Seran stood, bigger in her armor, and bulkier after a year of training in the guard.

“There you are then!” Hawke grinned broadly, throwing an arm around the woman's shoulders. “You even have brave volunteers!”

"Seran, I know you...look up to Hawke," Aveline spoke in a more subdued tone, "but you don't have to do this."

A little over a year ago, the woman beside her had been a girl cowering behind her lover's skirts, and speaking only of the Maker. _She's stronger, here._ Hawke thought, wonderingly, removing her arm.

"I want to." Seran straightened. “Juneth and I often wondered why the Chantry didn’t pay attention to the needy in Darktown. I want to see it, firsthand.”

Aveline sighed, eyebrows knitting together. “Take Corbin and Lettie with you, and ask for volunteers.” Seran saluted smartly, smiling at Hawke before she left the office. Aveline sighed when she saw Hawke still standing there. “ _Yes_?”

“There’s something else.”

“Isn’t there always?”

“Can you sign this?”

Aveline took the paper from Hawke’s outstretched arm, her features changing to shock then softening to something unreadable before she turned back to her. “This is,”

Hawke blushed, waving her hands in the air in front of her frantically, “Hush, yes I know what it is, I gave it to you!”

"Have you talked to Fenris about this?"

Hawke nodded, biting her tongue.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Well now I’m not…”

“No, I mean,” Aveline grabbed a stamp, “I just worry. You know.”

“I know.” She rubbed her nose. “It’s not official until he signs it anyway.”

“Well, by the power of the City of Kirkwall, in my acting capacity as Guard Captain, until such a time as a Viscount is appointed,” she stamped the paper, “there. Remember to take this to Bran Senenschal after.”

“I know, I know,” Hawke snatched the paper, “thanks, Aveline.”

She could feel Aveline’s smile on her back.

* * *

Hawke stared at the paper in her hands warily, eyeing it like a hungry beast. She could hear Varric and Anders laughing in the other room over something Islen had eaten that was ‘not food’.

She was debating where to hide it when Orana entered the kitchen, eyes puffy and red.

“Sorry,” she smiled wanly, wiping at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re, no, you’re never,” Hawke stopped herself, folding the paper and sliding it into her boot. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Merrill,” Orana blinked watery eyes at her. “She doesn’t want me to tell you, but...I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s, ah, okay, Orana." Hawke wrung her hands uselessly in front of her. "You can talk to me.”

Orana took a deep breath, seeming more sure. “It’s that Eluvian. She thinks she’s found a way to make it work without the Arulin'Holm.”

Hawke rubbed a hand down her face. “Of course she has.”

“We fought. She’s not been eating or sleeping well. I was supposed to see her for her lessons," Orana admitted slowly, "but she hasn’t shown up."

“If you two fought, maybe,” Hawke trailed off. She desperately wanted to check on Merrill, considering the circumstances, but if this was a _relationship_ thing…

“I don’t know what to say to her” Orana confessed. “We’ve talked about her clan, and…my past, but it’s all very detached.” Orana confessed. “Merrill showed me that blood magic doesn’t make you cruel. She’s so _kind_ and,” Orana set her jaw, “ _so_ stubborn.”

“I understand.” Hawke did understand. There were parts of Varric that she’d never completely grasp. She didn’t know about _kalnas_ or why he didn’t tell everyone, ‘Piss on you!’ and marry Bianca anyway. And no matter where Varric made his home, he’d never really understand being so poor you can’t see the top from the bottom. There were times you just had to trust your empathy and leave it at that. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you. She listens to you.”

* * *

Merrill _didn’t_ listen to Hawke. Nor did she listen to Marethari.

Looking from Merrill’s slack face to the the Keeper’s prone form, Hawke tried to look back, to pinpoint the moment when she knew everything was going to go wrong.

 _So stubborn._ Orana’s exasperated voice chanted in her mind.

“Come on,” she turned, helping Merrill to her feet, “your clan aren’t going to be happy about this, but you were their First. Reason with them.”

Merrill nodded distractedly.

“Merrill.” Hawke barked. “I need you focused.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

“Good.”

They walked to the mouth of the cave in relative silence, Merrill taking the lead and Anders between them, eyeing her hunched shoulders, grip tight on his staff, waiting for the worst. As though the worst hadn’t already happened for Merrill.

"Worried?" Hawke taunted, when they kept equal pace, bitter amusement lacing her tone.

"You could stand to be more cautious." Anders replied honestly. “The Keeper was right. Merrill isn’t a child. She may not have known everything when she summoned that demon, but she knew enough."

“I don’t treat her like a child.” Hawke hissed, crossing her arms defensively. The same accusation had been lobbed at her from Merrill, herself, and what did _that_ say? “We tried to warn her, didn’t we? You and me, _and_ Marethari. That’s not…coddling, it’s _common sense_. I’d’ve done the same for you. I _have_ done the same for you.”

“And I have. For you.” Anders twisted his lips into a half-smile.

“That’s right, you have.” She stuck her chin out. “So, no, Merrill’s not an exception. I’d say we all put up with an _exceptional_ amount from one another, thank you.” She lowered her voice, “I just happen to understand that someone’s mother just died." That seemed to strike a chord with him and he backed off, looking slightly chastised.

“Hawke?” Her name floated back to her carried on Merrill’s high voice. She had stopped at the mouth of the cave, back ramrod straight and eyes, like the rest of her, focused firmly ahead. Her right arm, however, reached back and shook fiercely. Anders shared a look with Hawke and nodded silently.

Hawke uncrossed her arms and reached for Merrill’s hand.

* * *

Hawke watched Merrill stare at the Eluvian, seemingly unable to push away whatever she was seeing in her mind. Merrill broke the silence first, and answered Hawke’s unspoken question with it.

“Their _faces_ Hawke. They _hate_ me.”

Hawke didn’t think it would be appropriate to point out that this had been the case for years now.

“I never understood why this was so despised.” She ran a hand along the side of the mirror. “It’s a part of our culture. I thought, I just thought…” she held her face. “Those spirits. All of those people. Creators have mercy on me.”

Hawke moved from the bed to hold her silently shaking form.

“It’s more than a piece of history. This was the only way to show them,” Merrill’s brow furrowed as she quieted, “it doesn’t matter now.”

“You said you’d never make the mistake of thinking of this place as your home,” Hawke pulled back, letting Merrill breathe a little, “I think…I used to feel that way, too. I watched Ferelden burn. I saw Carver die. Home was wherever I could keep the rest of the family safe.” Merrill regarded her solemnly. “I know you wanted to help your clan and I _know_ you feel as though you’ve failed. But your clan here? We still need you.”

“What could you possibly need me for?” She hiccupped.

“Well, we keep Islen around and you’re not half as destructive as her nappies.” She watched the corners of Merrill’s mouth lift. “Also, she’s _so lazy!_ Always sleeping, never pulling her own weight, let me tell you.” She lifted Merrill’s chin. “Hey, you’re _incredibly_ bright, Merrill, and I could spend all evening listing off the multitude of reasons why you’re important to me. But there’s only one you need to hear; you’re my friend and I need you.”

“That’s,” Merrill shrugged, smile slowly spreading, “something.”

“Merrill?” Orana peeked her head around the door and Hawke motioned her in as Merrill pulled away to clean herself off. Orana bowed her head a little, leaving her basket on the table by the door. Sarge, Isabela, and Aveline trailed less quietly behind her and Hawke stood to meet them. She smiled, despite her emotional exhaustion.

“Oh my,” Merrill picked a few things off of the floor. “I’m dreadfully sorry, I wasn’t expecting company after…”

Orana interrupted her with a light kiss, taking the items from her hands and stowing them under the bed. “I brought friends. I just thought you needed…this clan.”

Hawke smirked proudly as Merrill clung to Orana, mumbling a mix of common tongue and Dailish too fast for her to catch. _At least they’re not fighting now._

Isabela pushed Hawke aside, clinging to the couple and brandishing a long-necked bottle. “Hello, Kitten. Heard I missed quite a bit today.”

“Did you steal that from Fenris?” Aveline raised a brow.

“You’ve no proof.” Isabela held the bottle close to her chest. Hawke suspected she had started a little earlier when she leaned in to her and whispered, overly loud, “It’s from the _rare_ shelf.”

Hawke laughed and Isabela popped open the bottle with a near-menacing giggle.

* * *

“A…hedge mage? Like the Saarebas?”

“I was reading about Rivain, but I guess.” Hawke fell back into her chair in a confused, half-balance. “I can’t say I’ve learned much except that they do what other mages can’t.”

“Any mage who works outside of traditional spell casting is fundamentally the same, I suppose.”

“Like blood magic?”

“Not exactly,” Merrill cast her gaze to the side nervously. “Blood magic is ‘ _forbidden_ ’, but it works just like any other spell.”

“You two are _so_ boring.” Isabela shouted through cupped hands.

“For once, I agree with Isabela.” Aveline covered her cup with a hand as Isabela twirled Merrill in a circle too close to them. “Why are you so interested, Hawke?”

“Selfish reasons.” Hawked replied dismissively. “I want to get in contact with Bethany quickly. This might be a good way.”

Merrill sat at Orana’s feet with a giggle. “Hawke, you can’t just _do_ Hedge Magic.” She blinked. “Can you? I wonder if it’s anything like,” she seemed to drift off into her own thoughts for a moment, “I’ll look into it. It’s good you came to me, I doubt you’re going to find anything useful in a Chantry-approved book,”

Hawke tuned whatever else she said out. She was curious but Isabela was right, it _was_ boring. She was happy to have done as well as she had, considering her attention span.

“What?” Merrill gasped. Her hands framed her face and she was looking, with unblinking focus, at Hawke.

“What?” Hawke straightened in her seat. By Merrill’s expression, she was no longer thinking of books.

“Orana says that Varric's moved in to your house!”

“Has he?” Hawke looked to Orana, genuinely curious. “I wonder if he knows that.”

“I only said,” Orana was blushing furiously, covering Merrill’s mouth with a hand, “that it seemed odd since he still has all his stuff here in Lowtown.”

“Perhaps it's his office.” Aveline suggested.

“Who has an office?” Isabela rolled her eyes, nose crinkling in disgust.

“ _I_ have an office.”

“ _Many_ pardons, your _officiallness_.”

Merrill leaned away from Orana’s hand, nearly falling from her chair in the process. “I didn’t even know you two were,” she pressed her lips tightly together, “did _all_ of you know?”

“Well, it’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?” Aveline tilted her head to the side.

“No!” Merrill stared between them, slack-jawed, “you don’t act any different!”

Hawke stared at her, blowing her cheeks out, “I’m lost,” she looked to Isabela, “is that a bad thing?”

“I’m sorry, Kitten, I guess we just assumed you…knew?” Isabela snorted into her drink.

They continued this back and forth, Merrill pouting and Isabela half-soothing, mostly teasing, and Hawke watched them with a head resting on her hand.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Aveline’s voice broke through her concentration.

“Talked to,” Hawke straightened, “oh, no, not yet. There hasn’t been a good time.”

Aveline laid a hand over hers where it played nervously with the toe of her boot.

With the reflexes of a snake, Isabela planted herself between Hawke and Aveline. “Talked to whom about hm?”

“Will you mind your own conversation?” Aveline flushed, pushing the woman out of her lap and back into her seat. “It’s none of your concern.”

“Oh, well now I have to know.”

“Aveline’s sent guards to Darktown. It’s a secret mission. Don’t tell.” Aveline cut a glance at her and she shrugged. She wasn’t _technically_ lying.

“Oh that’s wonderful!” A real smile broke over Merrill’s face.

“Yeah, how long has Anders been beating his head against the wall about that?” Isabela took a swig of her drink. “He’ll be pleased.”

Sarge, who had fallen asleep immediately after licking Merrill’s face, moved only to place a heavy head on Hawke’s lap, growling something that, to her, read as playful disgust. She smiled at him weakly.

When she looked up, Aveline was smiling too. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Hawke laughed, a little more sure this time. “I _rarely_ know you to be wrong, Captain.”

* * *

“I’m glad to hear Daisy’s feeling better.”

“I’m glad her clan doesn’t ask inconvenient questions.” Hawke and Varric let Islen slowly explore the interior of the Black Emporium, Xenon quietly snoring from the center of the room. “I’m not sure how she would have handled her whole clan…well.”

Varric picked up Islen to let her examine the golem more closely. Strangely, Hawke knew exactly what would happen now; a quiet moment to herself while Varric threw together some story to interest Islen. It was routine, when they went anywhere. _All this commotion with rescuing mages, abominations, and magic mirrors and here’s still Islen, floating under the surface, not a clue as to what was happening around her._

Hawke sat on the bench behind her, reaching into her boot and pulling out the paper she had stashed there for the past few weeks. Her fingernails were black around the edges. It stood out against the creamy white of the page. How did they always get so dirty?

“Find something interesting?” Varric stood in front of her, holding Islen upside down by her ankles as the girl struggled, valiantly, to swing back and forth on her own.

Hawke looked around at the dark room. It wasn’t a terribly romantic atmosphere, but then, neither was most of Kirkwall. She had to take her moments where she found them.

“I, um, had Aveline do something for me,” she explained as Varric flipped Islen, setting her on her feet. Hawke had planned to give it to Varric, but thought better of it at the last second, handing the paper to Islen and motioning for the girl to pass it along. Islen stared at it for a moment before waving it in the direction of his face.

“Look!”

“Can I see?” Varric smothered a chuckle.

Islen seemed to consider this before nodding solemnly and letting him take the folded paper from her. He opened it and read, his face eerily neutral.

“I had her draw up the paperwork listing you as Islen’s father, no questions asked. City _and_ Chantry official if we take it to the Seneschal.” Hawke explained, when the silence became too much. “And you have to sign it, too. If you want,”

“You _really_ want me to be her father?” Varric continued staring at the paper, his face a blank slate.

“I love you.” Hawke said, as though that explained everything. “How could I be with someone who didn’t want that part of my life?” She glanced up at him through her lashes. “You _do_ want that?”

Varric smiled and reached out, cupping her face with his hands and tugging her in. “Yes.” He told Hawke, and kissed her.

Elation quickly replaced nervousness and she had to consciously remind herself that they were _not_ at home, nor alone. This task was taken out of her hands, with a tiny fist on her thigh as Islen, always desperate for attention, attempted to climb the bench and insinuate herself between them.

“There is a not insignificant sized child on my foot.” She heard Varric chuckle above her.

“She’s using my sleeve as a climbing rope.”

Varric pulled away, lifting Islen to sit her on Hawke’s lap properly and staring at the two of them, seemingly awestruck. “This is terrifying,” he admitted with a snort of nervous laughter. “And I love you too.”

Hawke smiled, letting Islen struggle out of her grasp to lean forward. She was holding a fist out to Varric.

“Oh, what’s that?” He examing the contents of her palm.

“Bug tits.” Islen giggled.

“It’s a booger.” He fetched his handkerchief, wiping her hand with a sigh. “She gave me a booger.”

“You know, I _think_ she gets that from you.”

* * *

The first letter she received from Bethany postmarked ‘Orlais’was _mostly_ variations on how much she missed the ragtag crew in Kirkwall and craving more information on her niece. The rest was, well...

 _It’s nice to have a job in town, though I can’t say I’m doing much. Bianca’s work is endlessly fascinating and you wouldn’t believe how easy it is to hide magic around dwarves. Or maybe they just don’t care, who knows. They’re funny about magic._  
_The Circle here isn’t so bad, but keep in mind I speak from Kirkwall experience. If you’re asking for me, I don’t want to go back, if you’re asking “for a friend”, it’s safe as it can be, I suppose. There’s a mage, Madame de Fer, who lives in a MANOR. I think it's best to avoid her. I'm fairly certain she can read minds. I think if it weren’t for work, I’d go MAD.  
_ _I’m sorry, I just saw the picture again and Islen is so cute in that little bandana! Is that one of Isabela’s? I bought her a set of_

Hawke laughed, desperately soaking up the rest of Bethany’s ramblings like a dehydrated woman. Written on the last page, in a less artistic scrawl, was another’s words.

 _Short-range enhancement fields, Hawke, your sister is a damned GENIUS! Guess she got all the smart genes, heh. That Sandal’s no slouch either. We got him his own workshop a little ways out of town...after the last incident.  
_ _Turns out, what you were asking for has a market. Not surprising, I’m sure there’s a ton of bards here who’d sell their soul for a treat like this. What I’m saying is, it’s been done before. Not by anyone as skilled as me, of course, but I think that goes without saying. Anyway, the preliminary design is finished. I’ll send the blueprints to Varric once they’re copied. We’ve had no luck in communicating long range yet. We’d need something bigger than lyrium for that. But that’s entering a field I’m lost in. I’ll keep you posted._

 _And remind Varric that if I don’t get advanced payment for the tunnel job I will tell you any secret he’s never wanted you to know.  
_ _Bianca Davri_

“Bianca says,”

“I _know_! Maker, she got to you too?”

“What _can’t_ she do?” Hawke wondered, with only a hint of sarcasm.

“Sunshine having fun?” Varric pulled Islen up into his lap to show her something in his book.

“Not too much,” Hawke commented handing him the letter and turning to her stack.

“Any secret,” Varric threw the letter across the table, shaking his head.

“ _You_ told me to trust her.” She reminded him in a sing-song voice.

“Yes, in the abstract. Like, oh Varric,” he pitched his voice higher in an obvious mimicry of her, “The Bone Pit is a very lucrative business venture, It'll pan out, _trust me_.”

“Or,” Hawke responded, lowering her own voice, "the Deep Roads will bring you success and glory! No worries, Hawke, _trust me_.”

“Hey, that was true.” Varric pointed at her, accusatory. Hawke scowled.

“Oh what about,” Orana piped in, her register low and throaty, “take her to see the clown! Trust me, Orana! Babies _love_ clowns!"

“Vicious slander against my person!” Varric appeared wounded. Orana carried Islen away from him, to a chair in front of the fireplace. “I am shocked, Orana.” The woman giggled, picking up her lute and letting Islen pluck at the strings. Hawke watched them with quiet reverence.

A knock, and Sarge’s subsequent growl, pulled Hawke’s attention to the door. Orana put her instrument down to stand.

“You keep her entertained.” Hawke tapped Orana’s shoulder in silent command. “I’ll get it.”

Seran was at her door, tight-lipped and ghostly pale.

“You found something?” Hawke stepped aside, letting Seran step into the parlour.

“I’m not allowed to say.” Seran looked away, guiltily. “Captain Aveline requests your presence at the Viscount’s Keep.”

“I’ve been waiting for months, this can’t keep until morning?” Seran shook her head. “Tell her I’ll be there soon.” She turned away, hearing the front door open and close behind her.

Varric hadn’t moved from his spot, but his eyes followed her curiously when she walked past him. “Do you need backup?”

“I’m grabbing Anders.” She grumbled, yanking her coat from the desk and tugging it on.

"Be safe." Varric turned his attention back to his book, flipping a page. "Say night-night to momma, Islen."

"Omma." Islen grunted from her spot on the floor, arms reaching up towards her.

"Oh, Maker’s beard!" Hawke held her heart, kneeling down to meet the girl with a wet kiss on the cheek. "Sorry, pip. Be good."

"I'm good."

* * *

Upon entering the clinic, she briefly wondered when Anders ever slept. The man currently sat by a patient’s bed, scrutinizing his arm. “Grab your coat,” she said without preamble, “looks like Aveline’s guards found something.”

“What?” Anders set the woman’s arm down lightly, giving her a reassuring smile before following Hawke to the door.

“Don’t get too excited. She doesn’t seem happy.”

“Did she tell you to bring me?” Anders finally seemed to catch up with her, slinging his coat around his shoulders and pulling it in tight.

“No. But I wouldn’t have known about this if it weren’t for you, so you’re coming.”

She heard his steps falter, briefly before picking back up again. “Thanks, Hawke.”

* * *

“Well you were right. This _was_ someone’s doing.” Aveline seemed less than pleased about this, though Seran’s next words explained the reasoning.

“Tranquil.”

“What?” A bark of laughter escaped Hawke before she could stop it.

“Impossible.” Anders seemed equally unimpressed.

Aveline breathed in through her nose. “They were spotted in the sewers several times over a period of months with those.” She motioned to two cylindrical, metal barrels housed to the side in the main room of the jail. “No one thought anything of it because...well.”

“Because what _desire_ would a Tranquil have to,” Anders’ shoulders shook with bitter laughter, “they haven’t the passion to,”

Hawke lay a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Herb resin.” Seran chimed in. “In the Chantry, we used it for healing and rituals. Most often we sent it to the Circle for the Tranquil to sell,” she explained, “but in large doses it can cause nausea, blindness. Over time it can even be fatal.”

“And they were just...dumping it in the drinking water?” Hawke asked, aghast.

Aveline nodded, solemnly. “They’re in the holding cells now.”

“You can't arrest them!” Anders immediately rushed forward, held back by Hawke’s hand.

Aveline stared at him passively. “That’s my job, Anders. I arrest men and women who break the law. Tranquil are people and _they_ were breaking the law.”

“Someone forced their hand!” Anders seethed. “Elthina, or one of the Sisters. You met Petrice. You’ve seen how they work!”

Hawke turned to Seran. “Will you excuse us?”

Seran nodded. “Of course, your Grace.”

Hawke balked. “I'm not a... whatever.” She waved off the title with a shake of her head. “Aveline, this smells bad.”

Aveline sat heavily in a chair as soon as the other woman left their hearing. “Seran and I have been the only ones to question them. They say it was a job tasked to them by the Chantry.” Anders narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth to speak. “So, _yes_ , Anders, I will be asking the Grand Cleric about this first.”

Anders’ shoulders dropped, clear skepticism written on his face. “You will.”

“I said I was doing my job and I am. They were dumping materials used _by the Chantry_ into the sewers below Darktown.” Aveline ran a hand over her brow. “I fear this will not end well, regardless of the reasoning.”

Anders looked past her to the door of the holding cells. “May I talk to them?”

Aveline looked distinctly unamused. “Did you become a member of the City Guard while I was out on patrol?” Anders remained silent. “Then no you absolutely may not.”

Anders seemed to accept that. “I am coming with you to see Elthina.”

Aveline sighed deeply, standing to leave. “I can’t stop you from doing that.”

“I know that tone.” Hawke leaned over Anders’ shoulder to whisper in his ear. “It means she wishes she could.”

* * *

Dawn was beautiful through the windows of the Chantry, Hawke thought with a great yawn.

“It’s a different world from the rest of Kirkwall.” Anders seemed to read her thoughts, though how beautiful he found the scene was debatable.

“Why do you think I left.” Seran spoke quietly, hands laced tightly behind her back, avoiding the eyes of her former Sisters.

Elthina walked down the steps, looking slightly puzzled and little worn. It was always a pleasure watching Aveline work. After years of leading the City Guard, it had become an almost inescapable task to avoid her reach. To see her power used against the old woman facing them now seemed like a wasted opportunity to see the master in action, but by the time Aveline had finished explaining the situation, something told Hawke that Elthina was more together than she appeared.

“I did tell them to dispose of it.” She looked contemplative. “Darktown, as you know, is above sea level. Many of the sewers empty out into the ocean. It’s been a harmless process until now.”

“Then the fault does lie with you.” Aveline replied simply, though Hawke could see the corners of her mouth turn down into a grimace. “You were careless.”

“Twas a simple mistake,” A Sister spoke out, nervous and obviously looking to diffuse the situation. Beside Hawke, Anders tensed.

“Her _mistake_  is killing people as we speak.” He leveled a glare at the Sister and she whipped around to look at him.

“They will be punished.” She was shaking, but her eyes were furious.

“No, Lorena, he is not wrong.” Elthina lay a hand on her shoulder, “When I became Grand Cleric I took a vow to the people of Kirkwall. Andraste set these Tranquil to our care and I fear the Maker would turn from me if I allow them to be penalized for my lack of oversight. Mother Samea,” Stepping to stand beside Aveline, Elthina addressed an older woman, who had been watching the proceedings from a bench with a quiet detachment. She now stood, head tilted attentively. “You are in charge for the moment. I will send word if I need you.”

* * *

Anders refused to leave until the Tranquil had been released and Hawke waited with him, unsure of the man’s mood. By the time he left for his bed, the sun was fully risen, and people were leaving their homes for the morning. Sitting on the steps outside of the Viscount’s Keep, she watched as a few of the dots strayed closer, one in particular catching her eye.

“Varric?” She stretched, lazily moving to her feet. Beside him, Islen used the palms of her hands to leap up each step, pushing away his hand when he offered to help. Eventually, after many tiny leaps and a foot-tapping patience she tried to hide, they reached her. “Sorry, I should have sent word.”

“It’s all right. She got fussy. Thought a morning walk would be nice.” Varric waved her off. Varric had dressed himself in a long emerald tunic lined with gold that offset his eyes. He had obviously come straight over from the manor, damp hair down around his face and bare chest on display. Effortlessly distracting, as always. Hawke realised her thoughts were becoming increasingly poetic as Varric leaned in in for a closer look at her. “Woah, you look beat.”

His voice was like honey...honey melted over a warm croissant. With a little cinnamon on top and maybe a few peaches to the side…

Her stomach grumbled loudly. She smiled stupidly, leaning forward on his shoulder. “You look...hn.”

“Very coherent.” He laughed from low in his chest, enfolding her in an embrace before guiding her to sit again. Hawke drummed her fingers on her face, urging herself to wakefulness and dragged Islen into her lap.“Things seem quiet around here.”

“I probably should have left when Anders did.” Islen tugged mercilessly at her hair and she paused to gently unfold the girl’s hand, using the action to look around them cautiously.“Elthina’s been arrested.”

“Oh, hoho, now _that’s_ a scandal to write about.” Varric clapped, near gleeful, “You gonna tell me what happened?”

She ran him through the more relevant events of the previous night, leaving out bits he'd probably find more interesting for later. “Aveline’s sent for the Circle representatives.” Hawke turned Islen to face her. “She’s had a peck of trouble with the Templars before. I thought I’d stay here just in case.”

“That’s a _serious_ look you're wearing." Varric glanced significantly at Islen. “Do I need to take her somewhere?"

“No,” she attempted to curb whatever _seriousness_ he saw by making faces at Islen. The girl giggled, falling forward on her lap to swat at her mouth. “Sometimes a baby can stop a confrontation better than a blade.”

"With Aveline maybe, but the Knight-Commander?" Varric sounded skeptical. When she didn't respond, he turned away with a sigh. "I guess we'll see."

They didn’t have to wait long.

By the time Meredith arrived, and to her credit without an escort, Aveline had joined them outside, along with the first guard rotation. Meredith held a paper aloft that Hawke recognized as a summons from the City Guard, but Aveline made no move to take it.

"I believe I called for your First Enchanter as well." Aveline said calmly, hands clasped behind her back.

Meredith lowered the summons, mirroring Aveline’s position. “Orsino has been confined to his quarters for disobedience, barring assessment.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if he can behave we will lift his restrictions.” Meredith explained, looking almost bored, “But the affairs of the Circle should not concern you, Guard Captain Vallen. This, however,” she motioned to the summons in her hand, “this concerns me.”

“It does not bring me joy to take the Grand Cleric into my custody,” Aveline straightened, taking a deep breath, “but she has broken the law and when any one citizen puts the city’s welfare at risk, I'm afraid it becomes very much my affair.”

Meredith’s laugh edged closer to a scoff. “What charges could a _City Guard_ bring against the highest authority under the Divine?”

Aveline raised an eyebrow.

“Stand aside.” Meredith stepped forward to move past her. Aveline didn’t budge. “Matters concerning the Chantry will be dealt with, _within_ the Chantry. Any _crime_ you accuse her of, we will handle from her quarters.”

“While the Templar Order concerns itself with apostasy and demonic possession, matters of crime and contraband fall to the City Guard.” Aveline recited, moving into Meredith’s space with each word. Hawke smirked. This was what she had missed last night. Moments like these were when Aveline _truly_ shone. “Our Grand Cleric was discovered organizing and aiding in the spread of disease and pestilence. No demons, no mages, _no Templars_. That makes it my matter. That means she stays here.” Aveline backed up, only slightly. “How she will be punished will be discussed with the Divine, if that puts your mind at ease. If you find any other issue with this, you can take it up with me in the barracks. Or write to Justinia, if you wish.”

Meredith looked ready to lunge. Hawke placed a foot out, swinging her body between the women like a door.

“No harm has come to her character, that she did not invite.” Hawke whispered. “Whatever you think, I can assure you Elthina came willingly.”

Meredith’s look did not soften, but her muscles uncoiled.

Aveline’s eyes darted between them. “Are we settled here?” Meredith glared at her but said nothing and Aveline raised her chin. “As head of the Templar Order, I cannot stop you, nor the First Enchanter, from speaking to her should either of you wish. That’s all.” And, with a sharp nod, she turned back to the Viscount’s Keep.

“Are you going to speak to Elthina?” Hawke asked, looking at Meredith sidelong.

“I will write to the Divine, first.” Meredith seemed, surprisingly, a little lost.

“I see.” Hawke didn’t, but she quieted, regardless. “We should go home.” She said, after an awkward moment. “It’s been a long night.”

She motioned to Varric, who had watched the proceedings with the same quiet appreciation as Hawke, and now held Islen by the hand. Meredith held her back by the shoulder as she passed. “I will accompany you that far, at least.”

The walk down the steps and into Hightown went by as silent and somberly as Hawke expected, with Varric trailing behind both fortunately, for Islen was kept far from the Knight-Commander, and unfortunately because she could not see them.

Eventually Meredith did speak. “Locking the Grand Cleric away without consulting the Order. _Granting_ me permission to visit her. I have allowed the City Guard too much power since the Viscount's murder.”

“Aveline's only trying to help.” Hawke protested immediately. “She's a very competent leader, you know?”

“The words of a friend, not of a Champion.” Meredith scoffed. “They are attempting to discredit us.”

“They who? The guard?”

Meredith shook her head. “There are more enemies to the Chantry, the Circle, to order in Thedas, than even you know of, Hawke.”

 _I could say the same._ Hawke thought, vaguely amused. They stood in front of the Amell estate, but Varric stayed a few feet away from the women. “Just admit it. The insurrection, the escapes, including my sister,” Varric shot her a look, but stayed quiet, “it’s put you on edge.”

“We look the other way, allow for distraction, and the result,” she glanced around her, distractedly, “I will not lower my guard, I dare not. Tell me, Champion, that you have not seen with your own eyes what they can do, heard the lies of mages who seek power?”

“I have met many who seek power.”

Hawke thought of Grace, brought back to the Circle, angry and alone. Anders, fighting for years with no results. Merrill, desperate to prove herself. The beggar, Samson, abandoned to Lyrium withdrawal for helping a mage. The old captain, Jeven, in debt and afraid of losing his position.

Varric. Holding the idol.

“Usually they’re just scared.”

Meredith went quiet. Perhaps her mind went to a similar place. Maybe she thought of her own sister, now.

Varric took the moment’s stillness to edge up next to them, shifting Islen to his hip and letting her stand between them. It was only when they drew closer that Hawke became aware of the humming and she placed a hand on her head to hush her. She idly wondered if the singing had gotten worse, or if it had only escaped her notice til now.

Meredith looked at Islen, clinging to Varric’s side. “I do not know why I speak to you of such things. You have more important matters.”

“We were just taking a walk, Knight-Commander.” Hawke shrugged.

“Blight-Tomato.” Islen showed off her full row of bright, white baby teeth.

Meredith’s own smile was somewhat lopsided. “A talkative child.”

“Yes, she’s normally...Islen, _no_.”

Islen had been reaching for the sword at Meredith’s hip but the use of her given name, in that tone, startled her to crocodile tears and she pulled away quickly.

“Curious, too.” Meredith raised a brow.

“Take care, Champion. Good night, little one.” Islen sniffed out the last of her tears, hiding half behind Varric and watching Meredith leave.

“The last time we spoke, she couldn’t decide whose side I was on.” Despite the distance between them, Hawke found herself speaking from the corner of her mouth. “She must not have many friends.”

Varric’s eyes were focused, razor sharp, on Meredith’s retreating back. “I didn’t like the way she was looking at Islen.”

“She’s just jealous she doesn’t get to bring home a singing, cheese-obsessed baby.” Varric snorted at that. Hawke reached over to twist the ring on her... _their_ daughter’s finger and led them inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you for all the lovely words of comfort people sent regarding my surgery. I’m much improved now and thank you, again, for the support.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to the end I can taste it! It tastes like someone who accidentally broke 75k words when she should have been processing keywords at work....
> 
> Thank you, kazzashepard for betaing and, for any Islen age trackers out there, she is 2 years and 3 months by this chapter’s timeline.

_9:37 Dragon, Solace_

The moon was high when Hawke left her bed to investigate an unusual sound. She was less startled at the noise coming from downstairs, being already awake after spending half the day asleep, and more surprised that someone was breaking into _her_ house.

“What is it?” Behind her, Varric had sat bolt upright in bed and was regarding her with heavy-lidded eyes.

“I heard a noise.” She explained, calmly. “Go back to sleep.”

He shuffled out of bed, completely ignoring her. “Islen?”

“It's probably Orana.” She reasoned.

“It's not Orana. She's too light footed.” Varric countered, obviously more awake now. He grabbed one of her daggers, tying it into his sash. “Let’s go.’”

In the hall, paralysing fear slowly morphed to quiet confusion at Islen’s open door. Sarge was still snuffling peacefully inside.

He hadn’t barked.

Looking for threats further inside the room, she felt the knot of tension in her stomach uncoil. Anders sat in the window nook, cradling Islen and looking out towards the sky.

“It’s just Anders.” She moved back to whisper.

Varric rolled his eyes and let his head fall back. “Well, there’s no way I’m going back to sleep now.” He grumbled, the experience having left him equally tense.

Hawke cast a glance over her shoulder. Anders hadn’t moved an inch.

“Go make us some tea.” She splayed a possessive hand over Varric’s cheek.

“Yeah, okay.” He blushed, sounding slightly thrown. She was rather impressed that she could still make him blush at all.

“Anders!”

That was definitely Islen’s voice. She’d only realised her daughter may be awake when she heard her speak from inside the room.

“Hey, she said it right!” She walked into her daughter’s bedroom, meeting Anders’ eyes in the window.

They were very blue. In fact, the whole nook seemed to shine.

“Oh,” she let out a huff of nervous laughter, “Justice. Hello.”

“Hello, Hawke,” said the spirit’s half-familiar voice.

What followed was a very uncomfortable silence. She suddenly wished Varric had stayed upstairs.

She eventually moved closer, sitting across from him and pulling one of her legs underneath her. In the crook of his arm, Islen was slowly falling back asleep.

“What are you doing here?” Hawke asked, painfully aware of the worry in her tone. “Is there something wrong with Islen?”

“No.” And that seemed to be all she was getting for that question. There was another, staggered silence. "Your progeny is a very affectionate creature.” He said at last, almost carefully. “You have done well to follow Anders’ advice regarding her.”

“Thank you. We don't always agree but he's taught me a few things.” She bit her lip, pulling a face, and considered holding her tongue. Even on a name-basis with the spirit, she could admit that he frightened her. Still this was a part of Anders. “Is Anders...are you okay?” Justice stared at her impassively. “Sorry, middle of the night, breaking into my house. It just seems a little out of character.”

“I did not break in.” Justice sounded, if anything, offended. “I have a key.”

“He _can_ joke.” She rolled her eyes.

Justice looked at the girl in his lap and back to Hawke. “I find her presence calming.”

“I believe she shares a fellow feeling in that.” Hawke smiled gently. "You seem...different around her."

"The anger in this mage has abated. Shaping a child reflects back on the shaper.” Justice was ostentatious at the worst of times, and vague at the best. Hawke felt, _vaguely_ , as though she’d just been complimented.

“Having a child makes you different. It’s _supposed_ to change you.” She said, because she knew it was true.

Justice nodded. "Anders sees the way his actions ripple, no longer inactive. Ineffective. You _have_ changed, Hawke, and so have others, in your changing.” He fixed Hawke with a penetrating gaze. “This one has been scarred many times."

"I don't think I can fix something like that.” She replied honestly.

“Perhaps it is not something any one human can.” Justice looked away. “But, for as much as you have shaped him, he has molded you too."

"Gross." She snickered.

Justice turned back to Islen, bathed in soft blue light that slowly slipped away.

And then he was gone.

Anders came back with a blink, blushing and refusing to meet her eyes. She took Islen from his arms, placing her gently into the crib, and motioned to the door. “I’ll go grab us something to drink.”

* * *

“What’s up with Blondie?”

She had barely stepped foot in the kitchen before Varric launched the question at her. It must have taken all his willpower not to wait at the foot of the steps, she thought with no little amusement.

“It was Justice.” Beside her, Varric tensed. “He’s gone now. It seems like he just wanted to see Islen.”

“Is something wrong with her?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I think he came for Anders. Or maybe Anders came and Justice got bored, who knows.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” Varric handed her a cup of tea that could, at best, be described as lukewarm by this point. “Here. I’m not sure why you humans think tea solves everything.”

“Solvent? Are you kidding?” Hawke huffed, reaching up to pull down a bottle of liquor. She poured a generous amount into the cup. “Tea’s just a mixer.”

Hawke stilled as Varric lifted her hand to kiss the back of it. When he offered nothing more than companionable silence, she dipped her head, claiming a kiss for herself.

“What?” She asked, smiling into his mouth.

“Nothing,” he smiled back, “I love you.”

“Oh,” she felt a prickle of heat on her cheeks. She knew he did, but the vocal demonstration still surprised her. “I love you too.”

“Please don’t let Blondie drink all of the good brandy.”

“Let’s see what he actually came for.” Hawke laughed softly, startling herself in the quiet kitchen. “We may need it ourselves.”

* * *

Anders’ head snapped up when she returned, Varric in tow. He relaxed marginally when Varric gave him a small wave.

Hawke retook her position across from Anders, holding out the mug of tea to him with one hand and leaning back on the other. Anders took a small sip from the cup, wincing almost immediately.

“There’s alcohol in this.”

“Yup.” She confirmed. He stared into the cup and threw it back without another word. “A strange day.” She said, curiously _not_ referring to the night’s events. “Meredith came by. After you left.”

“You missed it, Blondie.” Chimed in Varric, making his way over to check on Islen. “Very heated words were exchanged. It was difficult to tell, but I’m pretty sure Aveline won.”

“Only until Meredith discovers there were Tranquil involved.” Anders looked too worn to be angry. “Aveline’s made an enemy. Both outside and inside her gates.”

“Don’t worry, Anders,” Hawke tried to sound reassuring. “Aveline’s on our side. Varric’s assured me that comes with a foolproof guarantee.” Across the room she heard a quiet, but undoubtedly rude noise. “Eventually.” She added, for good measure.

“The Chantry is requesting permission from the Divine for a community service sentence.” He scoffed. Hawke tilted her head. “A punishment to help the people of Darktown. Repair what she wrought. Aveline came by the clinic this evening. She says it’s above her pay at this point.”

Hawke was more surprised that Aveline had considered taking the time to tell Anders than anything else. The woman cared, in her own small way. “How do you feel about that?”

“It’s not what I would have chosen.”

“We’re well aware.” She kept her tone mild. “That’s not what I asked.”

“She was imprisoned, justly, for a crime she enabled. I _feel _that she is not getting the punishment she deserves.”__

“You told me justice was righteous, hard,” Hawke recalled, “shouldn’t justice also be objective?”

“You asked me only how I felt. It requires a little subjectivity.” Anders countered with a little more life. “Do you _really_ think she didn’t know what they were doing?”

“I am more than happy to believe that people are morons, personally.” Varric smiled brightly.

"Oh, I think she knew exactly what she was doing when she turned herself in." Hawke admitted easily. "She was very in control for a woman who just found out she had poisoned an entire subsection of the city. Whether or not she knew it was happening is a separate matter entirely.”

“Regardless of anyone's feelings on the matter, she may not get the response she’s hoping for from the Grand Cathedral. Rumor is the Divine has concerns about how the Chantry runs in Kirkwall.” Anders nodded grimly. “There has been talk of an Exalted March on Kirkwall.”

"Bloody Balls." Varric rubbed his face. Hawke raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the crib. "What? She's asleep."

"If the Divine has lost faith in her, how long do _you_ think Elthina can juggle the balance of power here?”

Quiet descended over the room, punctuated by Sarge’s snores and the sounds of the house moving. Hawke spoke first. “Is that why you came tonight? To...cool off?” Hawke guessed.

"I was just...thinking." Anders looked frustrated.

"Fine," she let it go it with a sigh. "Are you at least going to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

Anders winced. “It’s...complicated.”

"Ah, that familiar tune." Varric muttered. Anders moved to stand across from him. "Tell us what's up, Blondie."

"Anders," Hawke's tone hardened, "Do you need us to kill someone? Are you planning something? I _need_ you to trust me. Please.” She added, smiling at him in a charming and utterly ineffective way. His gaze was focused on Islen.

“The Chantry,” he started slowly, as though the words were ripped from his throat, “if we destroy it.”

Varric’s gaze moved from Anders to Hawke, brow wrinkled in confusion. Hawke shrugged, sure her expression mirrored his own.

“You wanted to know what I was planning.” Anders looked between them, chin shoved forward. “There you are. Make a statement. Destroy the Chantry.”

The color drained from Hawke’s face. The way he said it, so sure. On the mountain. _Catastrophic_ , he'd said. She didn’t know how anything managed to take her by surprise these days.

“How long have you been thinking about this?”

Anders bit his lip and drew in a breath. “A while.”

She leaned forward on her knees and drew in a deep breath. “Okay. So we destroy the Chantry. That's it? That's the whole plan?" Anders stared at her.

"Been planning this a while, you say?" Varric deadpanned. "Then what? That Exalted March you were talking about, maybe? Kirkwall barely keeps its head above water with _one_ Chantry. You want a whole arm of the law here?”

“That could have been Seran and Juneth, last year. There are Tranquil still there, too.” Hawke kept her expression purposefully blank. “And you. You’d never be able to live. They would hunt you like a _dog_. They wouldn’t stop, do you understand?”

“Yes!” Anders near-shouted then quieted when Islen turned over in her sleep, the small movement demanding the room’s attention. “This is why...I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Didn’t want to, or didn’t want me to try to talk you out of it?”

“...both.” He admitted reluctantly.

“So why are you telling us now?” Varric crossed his arms.

Anders straightened his shoulders. “The things they were getting away with, the Chantry, the templars...it was _infuriating_. And it didn’t matter that we knew; nothing was happening. Nothing _good_ anyway.” He deflated a little. “It just felt...it felt like no one was listening.”

Hawke darted a look over Anders’ shoulder. Varric shrugged ineffectually.

"People were dying and I couldn’t,” Anders ran and hand over his face, “I wasn't doing _anything_. But no matter how angry I was, every time I tried, I couldn’t go through with what I had planned.”

“Why not?” Hawke asked, tone carefully neutral.

Anders looked down at Islen. "There were times when I thought of this before, an absent thought here a stray idea there, and you would bring Islen to visit. And I thought, how do I do this and keep the fallout from reaching her?" He questioned the room with surprising aplomb. "And there was nothing. It would never be safe." His arms fell to his side "Justice is right. She is an _axis_ around which we...I have changed."

“I think you may be overestimating Islen’s power of persuasion…” The corner of her mouth tilted upward. Still…

Hawke thought back to Fenris’ questions before Islen was born. His new show of tolerance, friendship even, with Anders. Seran and Juneth breaking away from the cloth. Aveline’s investigation into Darktown.

And now this.

She couldn’t say if all of these were attributed to the sleeping bundle in the center of the room, but Islen was certainly more significant than she was aware.

“I’ve been through this before you know, from the other side. My parents were good, teaching Bethany how to control her magic, helping Carver and me understand it.” She joined them by the crib. “But knowing didn’t stop what was after us. It didn’t mean we could stop hiding.”

Anders shared a look of silent understanding.

“There’s something...different about Islen. The Chantry here doesn’t know how to handle different.” Hawke gripped the edge of the crib, shoulders dropping minutely. “Bethany’s gone. You’re an apostate, Merrill and Fenris live half in-hiding, Aveline spends more time covering our blighted messes than anything else, I’ll reckon.”

“What are you saying?”

“You’re right about one thing. As long as we live here, we’ll never feel _really_ safe. ” She tapped her skull lightly. “You’re a smart guy, Anders, and I got a bunch of ideas kicking around up here.”

Anders looked between them, dazed and a little lost.

Varric lay a hand on his shoulder. “I think what she’s saying is, what do you need us to do?”

* * *

Hawke set Islen down as she approached Knight-Captain Cullen. She didn’t normally bring her to the Gallows. It wasn’t an ideal shopping location and, beyond that, the action held...certain connotations.

“I don't know that this is the place for a child, Champion.”

“I was under the impression that children were brought here without their parents supervision all the time.” Hawke’s response was the appropriate blend of haughty and accurate. Cullen stiffened.

Connotations, indeed.

“I need to speak to Orsino.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

Cullen stared at her, clearly irritated. “He’s confined to his quarters.”

“I’m aware. You can’t trust anyone these days, huh?” Hawke let out an aggrieved sigh. “I’m here, unofficially, if you must know.” She held out a sheet of paper that was, in no way, legal. “That is an official request to the Divine. I’m calling for reinforcements to help find my sister.”

“Surely she won’t grant such a request for _one_ mage.”

“Your Knight-Commander claims she could use the men.” She pointed at a signature that, to Varric’s credit, looked astoundingly like Meredith’s. “But I have to have the First Enchanter’s for it to be an official request.” She said, sounding very put-upon.“Let me speak to him, please?”

“Fine,” Cullen rolled his eyes, “have him sign and nothing more, understood?”

“Come on, sweetheart.” A woman followed she and Islen halfway to Orsino’s chamber. Hawke gave the man outside the door a once-over. “Hugh.”

“Champion.” He sighed, long-sufferingly. “Fifty silver.”

“Fifty?” She balked. “Last time it was only thirty.”

“Las’ time, Orsino wasn’t under house arrest.” He explained patiently, holding out a hand. “An’ you didn’t ‘ave a pup.”

“Well played then.” She emptied the last of her coins in the man’s hands. “I’ll give you the rest at this week’s game, you know I’m good for it.”

Hugh accepted this with grace, looking around cautiously before pocketing the change and walking away, a skip in his step and a whistle on his lips.

“Swindler.” She groused, ushering Islen into the room.

Orsino looked up in shock. “Champion...and who is this?”

“Islen, say hello.”

Islen, who had wandered over to the fireplace upon entering, turned around at her name. “Bug tits.”

“This is my daughter.”

“I see the resemblance.” He raised a brow.

Hawke grinned, proudly.

“I sense something about her,” he reached into a drawer and the grin fell from Hawke’s face, “that, like her aunt, she is fond of sweets.” Islen’s eyes trained on the treat with unwavering intensity and Orsino chuckled. Hawke smiled, nodding her permission to Islen. “I guessed correctly. Much like the doctor I’m afraid I don’t encounter very many happy children.” He explained, passing the candy into Islen’s waiting hand. “I’m surprised you were allowed in unattended.”

“It’s amazing how few people in big armor want to come near a baby.” She smiled, looking around the sparsely decorated room. “I hear Meredith’s been keeping busy.”

“Subjugation can be so exhausting.”

“You’re not even attempting subtlety anymore, eh?”

“As I said. Subjugation is exhausting.” He replied dryly. “After Elthina I thought for sure Meredith would,” Orsino swallowed. “That’s unimportant, now. What can I do for you?”

“I got a letter from Bethany.” She reached into her sleeve, pulling out the folded paper. “Thought you'd like to hear how she is."

Orsino’s jaw clenched, but he took the letter, regardless. “You play a dangerous game, Champion.”

“You should read it while I’m here.” Hawke leaned against his desk, eyes following Islen as she sat on the ground to unwrap her treat. “It may be the only time they’re not watching you.”

Behind her, Orsino read. Or she hoped he was reading. Her reason for being here hinged on it.

Eventually, he moved to the fire and, she saw, he was indeed reading. She watched him open and close his eyes slowly, glancing over the letter once more before balling it up and tossing it into the fire. “You already saved your sister. Why are you doing this?”

She did not know whether he meant the letter or coming here at all. “Consider it a thank you. You warned me, I’m warning you.” She came to sit beside Islen in front of the fire. "We're getting the mages out of Kirkwall’s Circle.”

Orsino’s laugh started small at first, then grew in volume. Hawke stayed still, smiling up at him and pulling Islen into her lap, mindful of her now sticky fingers. Eventually his laughter subsided, familiar, serious expression returning. “I'm well aware of your penchant for ridiculous fancies,” he motioned towards the burning edges of the letter in the flames, “but this puts us all at risk. Have you thought of the consequences of even proposing such an idea?”

“You should have heard the first plan.” She joked weakly.

"I understand your disregard for the Circle's service. I, too, have questioned of late," he took a moment to collect himself, "but not every mage is as capable as Bethany. Many of the mages here don't have the skills to survive in the real world." Orsino explained, holding the bridge of his nose.

"People aren't _born_ capable, they learn to be." She said and watched his lips press into a thin line. "This place strips them of those tools and treats it as charity."

"Regardless, for some, it is the only home they've known."

"You have to leave home sometime," she suggested consolingly, "even if you come back."

Whatever small bit of hope passed over his face was quashed almost instantaneously. Years of practice no doubt. "They will be rudderless without guidance."

"Come with them." Hawke lifted a shoulder.

"Appreciated, considering my current circumstances," he smiled softly. "However, whatever you have up your sleeve, it cannot involve me. You know how closely I am watched."

"I got in easy enough." She japed.

"Try leaving with me." Orsino raised a brow in challenge. "They will not just allow an entire Circle to go free without pursuit." He said suspiciously, but some of the heat had left his tone. "And all phylacteries of First Enchanters are kept at the White Spire."

"Then we'll take you there." Hawke stood, Islen tight to her side. "I know there's a reason you haven't been reporting suspicious activity to Meredith." She lowered her voice. "And I'd place good money you've gotten a few mages out _before_ my sweet sister."

He broke gaze first, confirming her thoughts.

"You and your lot wanna stay in the Circle, go ahead, who am I? _Just not this one._ "

Orsino was quiet for a long time and then, "They will be protected?"

"Trust me," she shot him a winning smile, "you help me out when my people give the word and we'll get you and yours far away from here. Which, for the record, is exactly where you'll want to be."

"What are you going to do?"

"Everything we can."

* * *

An hour later, Varric was wiping down Islen's treacle-covered hands. "How did your fingers get so sticky?" He asked, expression mock-serious. "That wasn't rhetorical, Islen. Explain these or I'll be forced to bite them off."

Islen giggled into his face.

"Look at her." He motioned to Islen, rocking back and forth on the bar of the Hanged Man. "I don't think she takes me seriously."

"Well, you're the _fun_ parent, Varric." Hawke explained patiently. "That's just your lot in life."

"...I am?"

"Yes, of course!" She picked Islen up from the counter and set her on the floor "Come on, pip. Let's go splash around outside for a bit."

"Pubble!"

"Much as I'd love to clean that up." Varric held her back motioning to the door. Aveline and Donnic stood with near identical expressions of resignation.

The Hanged Man brought that out in the Kirkwall guard.

"I take it back." Hawke pouted. "You're not the fun parent." Varric brushed a kiss across her knuckles and turned to head up the stairs.

"Thanks for coming, Donnic." She guided Islen to hold his hand.

"Could always use the practice." His smile was wide and Hawke gave him an impressed nod.

Between them, Aveline blushed fiercely. "Am I the last?"

"Yep," Hawke nodded, motioning upstairs, "Come on up. Islen," she pointed at the girl. "Don’t do anything I wouldn't do."

"Maker..." Aveline muttered under her breath

Hawke smiled. "Be good."

"I'm good." Islen said, defensively.

"She picked that up quick." Donnic laughed. "Come on, Islen, I'll teach you how to beat your mom at Diamondback."

"You will do no such thing!" Hawke shouted over her shoulder with a laugh. She ascended the stairs, Aveline behind her.

After a few moments she heard Aveline whisper. "This tests the boundaries of my trust, Hawke."

"I know," Hawke started.

"I make no promises," she interrupted, "but thank you, for telling me this time."

* * *

Hawke let out a loud breath, shifting until her foot was out of the covers. She had hoped the action would wake Varric but his breathing remained steady. She spent quite a while staring sightlessly at the ceiling before rolling her whole weight on top of him.

A muffled protest came from the area of her chest and she moved so he could edge away.

"Can I help you?" She heard the sarcasm evident in his tone.

"Oh are you awake?" She tried for casual but he must have heard something in her voice. He sighed, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her in to bury his face in her chest.

"Can't sleep?" He asked, after a moment.

"Do you think we're doing the right thing?"

“I think we're doing something incredibly dumb.” His words were weighted. Cautious. “Where you're involved that usually means we're on the right track.” She snorted and he moved his free hand to thread his fingers through hers. “Let's not worry about it anymore tonight. I'm sick of talking about it and I have a feeling it's going to be all we hear about for...a while.”

Hawke’s free hand coiled into his loosened hair, wrapping a few of the strands around her fingers. It was a comforting gesture, and familiar, one she had adopted before they were anything more than best friends and business partners.

"Did you _really_ never think of me this way before I said anything about it?"

Silence. Varric’s fingers were warm against her own.

"The truth." She demanded.

"I wouldn't say _never_." He finally admitted "You and Rivaini showed up in some pretty interesting dreams.”

Hawke shuddered. Though she had not heard of these, they had swapped sex dream stories in the past. With Varric, _interesting_ did not often translate to _titillating_.

“It’s just,” she considered her words, “you write me very well. Er,” she clarified, “you’re very flattering.”

“That was just one part of my brain trying to catch the others up.” He chuckled. “You should try reading my romance sometime. It’ll make you glad some part of me loved you before I started telling tales about you.”

“That bad?”

“Oh, it’s awful.” He laughed. “Rereading it’s like a fever dream. No real character growth, cliches all over the place. ‘Their love was a realization, a bolt of lightning'.”

“Varric!” Hawke gasped, halfway to laughing. “Are you saying your heart _didn’t_ skip a beat when you saw me?”

“I’m sorry to say the room didn’t _melt away_ , either.” He snorted. "You’re always on my mind, Hawke. After you told me how you felt, I started thinking about it,” Varric smiled, pressing a warm kiss to her sternum, “and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. ”

A smile curled the edges of her lips. “It just hit you...like a bolt of lightning?”

“Shut up.”

"Well,” she pulled him closer, “however it worked I'm glad."

She felt him smile against her chest and couldn’t, for the life of her, remember why it had been so hard to fall asleep in the first place.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last official chapter! This one is written a bit differently than the others for plot purposes but it was fun experimenting. And by fun I mean “I have been working on this beast since posting chapter 5 and am only now satisfied with it.”

_9:37 Dragon, August_

Hawke unlocked the coffer by her bedroom door and pulled out the now slightly worn red scarf. Islen squirmed in her arms, settling as it was wrapped securely around her.

She spent a long moment staring at her before going downstairs. She knew Islen could make the trip but, this time, she wanted to hold her.

“It can’t be more than a short thought. Like, ‘buy bread’ or ‘trap’, that one’s useful!” Merrill was explaining something as she descended. “Oh, Hawke, good!” Merrill handed her a bracelet and Hawke passed Islen to Varric to slip it over her wrist. It was a plain, leather band, with a small plaque made of a near translucent glass that changed colors in the low light.

“Merrill, is this your,”

“No time,” Merrill interrupted her, visibly upset. “I’ve already explained them to Varric and Orana. Here’s how these are _should_ work...I hope.”

_Three Weeks Ago, The Hanged Man_

“My goodness, this is all so,” Merrill’s brow wrinkled.

“We’re not telling you to do anything, Daisy, we’re asking if you want in.” Varric spread his hands.

“And this is kind of a stretch.” Hawke winced. “If you don’t want to try it, I’ll understand.”

“No, of course not,” Merrill rushed to reassure them, “think about who you’re talking to.” She laughed. “I mean it’s just a bit sudden isn’t it?”

Hawke bit her thumb, Merrill grabbed her hands and pulled them out of her mouth.”Sorry. Old habit.”

But the elf was no longer paying attention, looking instead out of the window towards the Alienage. “Eluvians _can_ be used to communicate, but not the way you’re thinking. There’s no spell I know of for a, well, a magic looking glass. Not outside of stories.”

“What about Bianca’s design?” Hawke pulled the sheet from the table, where it was buried beneath several maps, and holding it out to her again. “Can you work with it _at all_?”

“Short message communication bracelets,” Merrill looked it over, “with lyrium enhancements?”

“That’s the idea for the finished product,” Hawke shrugged looking hopeful, “but _these_ are supposed to be covert.”

“Any templar worth their salt is going to sense something like that a mile off.” Anders supplied.

“I can’t say my suggestion is any better.” Merrill’s lip twitched nervously. She motioned Hawke away from the others. When they were talking amongst themselves once more, she continued. “Has Bethany tried using magical enhancements?”

“She’s working with a dwarf smith. Lyrium’s one thing, but magic,” Hawke chuckled, more uneasy than amused. “You want to try blood magic?”

“Actually, oh I’m so sorry just a second,” Merrill ran back to the table to pull out a few papers. “I did do _some_ reading on Hedge Mages. Here.” She jogged back, handing her one covered in scribbles and random Dalish. “It’s a bounce back spell. Whatever thoughts you’re thinking reflect back to you. It’s supposed to be used...introspectively from what I’ve read, but I think it’ll work for this. Possibly.” She examined Bianca’s design held, tightly, in her other hand. “It’d still need some sort of...conduit.”

Hawke covered “You haven't let me down, Merrill. Do what you have to.”

“I always do.”

* * *

Hawke examined what was _obviously_ a piece of Merrill’s Eluvian on her wrist with detached sadness. Her adrenaline rolled off of her in waves and she had to sit on her hands to still herself as they waited for the second bell of the day.

Hawke watched Merrill and Orana kiss, whisper warnings, and felt a thousand dreads stir low in her gut. She forced herself to look away. Her eyes sought Varric, first, but his were fixed firmly on Islen.

“This is why I don’t like planning things.” She moved to splay a hand on his back, effectively drawing his attention. “Everyone worries for nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say nothing.” He kissed the top of Islen’s head. Hawke leaned down to kiss the stubble of his chin. “You be careful.”

“Oh please, my part’s not even dangerous.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He raised his eyebrows in challenge.

“I thought that’s what you loved about me.” She said, suggestively. He didn’t look too impressed but something in her actions must have reassured him, as some of the tenseness had left his shoulders.

The second bell rang. Merrill looked at the door, wiping her eyes. She backed away as Hawke and Varric approached with Islen.

Hawke took Orana by the shoulders. “When the bells start, take her to the place I’ve marked on the map.” Hawke handed her a piece of brown canvas. “It’s called the Black Emporium. If everything goes well, we’ll come get you after. If not, Donnic knows where you are.”

“And if anyone else finds us there?” Orana took Islen from Varric and the map from Hawke. Islen immediately reached for the paper with a look of menacing glee.

“Assuming Sarge hasn’t ripped them to shreds by then?” She prompted and the mabari howled as if on cue. “If they don’t buy you’re ‘Really I was only shopping and it magiced me inside!’ excuse, use this.” Hawke placed a ball in her bag.

“Careful with that.” Varric warned. “Unlock the lever on the side and it’ll blind anyone in front of you for the next hour.”

“Good for a quick escape though. You’ll wanna find the dwarf who made it, Bianca Davri, in Orlais.” Hawke instructed. “Bethany will be there. And Sandal and Bodahn, too.”

Orana nodded stiffly, gripping Islen to her side like a lifeline. “Be safe, Marian.”

Hawke blinked at the use of her given name coming from Orana, before bringing her arms around the elf’s shoulders in a hug, Islen between them.

Orana pulled away and moved to Merrill, pecking her cheek before quietly slipping through the side door, Sarge hot on her heels. The others walked to the main hall.

“I’ll look after Varric.” Merrill’s smile wrinkled her nose. Hawke didn’t know if it was the words or just the smile after such a long goodbye, but a bit of the tension in her belly unwound and she pulled the elf into a tight embrace, patting her back as she pushed her towards the door.

“ _Daisy an’ me_ will look after _each other_.” Varric clarified, rolling his eyes. He pointed at Hawke, looking very serious. “I mean it. Be safe.”

Hawke held the sides of Varric’s face, and let her brow fall to rest against his. “I’ll be my usual, charming self.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” He covered her hands with his own, face tilted and mouth fitting perfectly against hers. After a few moments, he pulled away, turning her hand and moving his head just enough to kiss the palm of her hand in a gesture that was becoming familiar. Then, with one last look cast over his shoulder, he followed Merrill out the door.

And Hawke was left alone, to sit on the floor of her parlor.

Pulling out the Tethras ring from under her shirt and examining it under the light, she felt quite childlike as she waited for the third bell to chime.

* * *

She found Fenris sat at his desk, reading a letter painfully slow.

“Who is that from?” Hawke asked, purposely prying.

“Isabela.” He responded distractedly.

“Ah,” Hawke drew back. She had only asked as a distraction, but this was anything but. “Would you like me to…”

“No, we’ve work to get to. This can wait.” He stood to leave, casting a lingering look at the page on the desk, then to Hawke. She held his gaze until he no longer could, saying slowly, “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“We can spare that.”

_The Hanged Man_

“No.”

“What do you mean, no.” Anders looked to be fighting off a migraine. “You _agreed_ to this only a few short hours ago. Is your memory so lax?”

Fenris shot him a withering look. “I said _no_ I will not be stationed with Isabela. It makes more sense for me to stay by Hawke’s side. Given my...vocal leanings, the Templars will be more willing to believe her claims if I’m there to support her.”

“He’s right.” Aveline crossed her arms. “The Order has no love for me right now, but Fenris has shown support for them in the past.”

Anders stared at the map, scratching his head. “All right,” he shrugged, a little helplessly, marking down the change.

“Unacceptable.” Hawke moved to change it back and Anders covered the map, bodily.

“Do you know how hard it is to keep up with all of this when you keep writing on the bloody canvas, Hawke?”

“Drinks, anyone?” Varric looked between Hawke, the map, and Fenris. “I think I could use a break. Let’s take five.”

Hawke ignored him, turning to the window, where Isabela was ensconced, instead. “You’re...all right with this?”

Isabela tilted her head to share a look with Fenris that Hawke could not interpret and didn’t want to try.

“Fenris is a free man.” Her smile was light and airy. She tipped her bandana forward to cover her eyes. “And if something goes wrong, one of us has to stay here to keep an eye on you and the kit.”

Hawke swallowed. “I can take care of myself.” She protested weakly.

“This isn't about you.” Fenris said, pointing at the map. “The decision’s been made. I’ll be by your side.”

* * *

Passing through the always bustling Docks, the Gallows loomed ahead of them. An armour vendor, just setting up his wares, called out to her and she side stepped to stray from his path.

At the sound of the fourth bell, Hawke quickened her pace.

“Need to see Orsino again?” Cullen raised a sardonic eyebrow at the approaching pair before taking in Hawke’s pinched expression and quick gait. “What’s wrong?”

_The Hanged Man_

“This is all you want me to do?”

“We can’t have you or Islen tied to this in any way.” Anders pointed out. “This is all you _can_ do.”

"Shit. Fine.” Hawke ground her teeth together. “I don't like being where the action isn't but I know my part.” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Anders, what do you want me to say? When we get there? What do I tell them?”

“The truth.”

* * *

“He’s going to blow up the Chantry.” Hawke explained breathless.

“Maker,” Cullen breathed, “to what end?”

“If there is, I couldn’t tell you. I only found the plans today, brought them straight here. It seems as though he’s been planning it for months but,” she bit the inside of her cheek, “I was distracted. I would bring it to Elthina,”

“You were right to come to me. ” Meredith straightened. “Do you have an idea where he might be, Champion?”

“If he’s not at his clinic he could be anywhere.” She said.

“Once he knows we’re onto him, he’ll try to escape using the mountains or the docks.” Cullen suggested. “If you send more men to Sundermount, I can lead a search through Lowtown."

“No.” Fenris bit out.

“Excuse me?”

“We came to you so you could _evacuate_ those in danger,” he pressed, “the witchhunt can wait.”

“As long as that mage walks these streets, we are _all_ in danger.” Meredith sucked in a breath.

“It is my hope that both can be accomplished.” Cullen stepped forward. “If this information proves correct, we should concentrate efforts on evacuating areas around the Chantry." Cullen gave Hawke a cool, assessing look. “With your permission, Knight-Commander, I’ll tell the harbormaster to seal the port?”

Meredith looked stunned. “I, yes, that’s,” she sighed, “we should keep eyes open in that area as well, yes. Proceed.” Cullen nodded, leaving them alone.

“Evacuation,” she sneered, “the Mothers and Sisters are _nattering fools_ on a good day, but Elthina is perfectly capable in this regard.”

"I think, with all that's happened, she would feel safer seeing you there." Hawke lay a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll come with you."

“My thanks, Champion.”

* * *

Bells rang through Kirkwall.

“Come on, ladies, get a move on!”

“What in Andraste’s blessed name is going on, Juneth?” A woman too old to properly open her eyes croaked out at the former Sister.

“Just a slight state of emergency, no need to fret, Mother Gertha,” Juneth placed a hand on the woman’s back, clamping down on her exasperation.

"Thanks for helping with this." Hawke shot her a grateful smile.

"Oh, my pleasure." Juneth replied with forced cheer. "Besides," she lowered her voice "Seran said this was one of the safest places to be tonight. What's a few clucking hens over protection, huh?"

"There's only one really dangerous place to be in Kirkwall, even before tonight." Hawke crossed her arms.

Juneth stared at her sidelong, "Didn't you fight a dragon in the Bone Pit?"

"That's not _really_ the city."

"What about the gangs in Darktown?"

"Just scared pups, really."

"And I've _heard_ things about the Hanged Man..."

"You blaspheme!" Juneth's giggle was abruptly cut off by something outside Hawke's field of vision.

Meredith, who had sent them ahead while she dispatched reinforcements to Sundermount, had finally joined them.

With a final pat to Juneth's shoulder, Hawke jogged over to stand beside the Knight-Commander.

"This is moving slower than I'd like." Hawke said, looking back at the doors of the chantry. "Elthina is inside. She refuses to leave until the last."

"That is her way." Meredith responded, thin-lipped.

"Any luck finding him, so far?" Hawke had tried to say Anders' name very little. Whether in hopes that the Templars would eventually forget it or because she knew what was coming next.

"We managed to locate the clinic you spoke of." Meredith said and Hawke felt her heart clench. "Empty, as suspected."

Hawke sagged as relief flooded her.

"We will find him, be sure of that." Meredith said, obviously mistaking her relief for disappointment. "Magic is a cancer in the heart of our land. Just as it was in the time of Andraste. And, like her, we are left with no choice but to purify it with fire and blood."

"Be glad we caught this before the flames spread. Still," Hawke tilted her head, "a strange way to treat a sick patient."

"Sometimes a limb must be amputated to save a life." Meredith folded her hands behind her back. "Unpleasant but necessary. And my surgery here is not yet done."

Hawke felt her lip curl. She ran a hand over her face to mask it. "I should go help Fenris."

“Perhaps we should summon the guard for assistance?” A Templar Hawke didn’t recognize drew Meredith’s attention away. The Knight-Commander scoffed.

“I trust you men will be sufficient for this task.”

“With so many of us around, the mage won't dare try anything now.” He bounced back from the rejection with a hopeful laugh, heading back to the Chantry.

Hawke reached Fenris just as she felt the heat on her wrist. She hissed, pulling up her sleeve. A message was written on her bracelet in sprawling green, _Templars at docks_. It disappeared after a moment and then, _Watch this._

A bright, beam of green light sailed through the sky and exploded in midair.

_The Hanged Man_

Varric held his chin. Hawke suspected he was more tired than he appeared. “You know, you go through with this I don't think I can afford to keep the templars from watching the clinic.”

"I'll remove the patients." Anders gave a weary sigh. "Those I can move, anyway."

“You still have the key?” Hawke asked and Anders nodded. "Bring them through the basement." She suggested. "Those who can't walk we'll set up in my manor or Fenris'."

"What about the Gallows? There's no way Meredith's not leaving someone there to watch the mages. Even for a manhunt."

“We give them something else to watch.” Aveline bent over the map, eyes searching.

Varric nodded. "Merrill and I can make some noise.” He pointed at the docks. “Here.”

“Draw what templars you can from the Gallows to the docks." Aveline agreed.

"It's risky, but it'll spread them thin." Fenris nodded. “The rest is up to you two.” He looked to Isabela and Anders.

“Secret tunnels, tricking templars, this just gets more and more fun.” Isabela rubbed her hands together.

“Not the word I would use.” Aveline cocked a brow. “But what do you think?”

Isabela grinned roguishly. “It’ll make a quick docking a lot easier."

“This takes care of the rest of us, but you'll have to disappear for a while.” Hawke clasped her upper arm. “Are you okay with that?”

She shrugged. “Won't be the first time. First time I'm bringing a bunch of mages with me.” She placed her hand over Hawke’s. “I'll come back for you and the pip whenever this is over.”

She squeezed her shoulder once more before turning back to the map.

* * *

"That came from the docks!"

"A firework." Meredith narrowed her eyes at the light.

"A distraction to lead us away from the Chantry?” One of the men suggested. “We’ve not stomped out all of the rebels. He can’t be working alone.”

“No.” Meredith held her chin. “Something is peculiar about this.” She took a step towards the man, whispering something, too quiet for Hawke to hear. He saluted smartly and turned, running towards the crowd of people now further in the distance.

“Hawke!” Hawke turned at the sound of her name to see Aveline in the Chantry courtyard, Seran and a retinue of guards at her back. “Perhaps someone can explain what’s going on here?”

“An exciting night for the Templars! Emergency evacuation, a mage manhunt, maybe some light apostate apprehension,” she chuckled nervously.

“I’m glad you find this amusing, Champion.” Meredith’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “I told my men we did not need you, Captain Vallen.”

“No one came for me.” Aveline looked around, features tense. “The bells were ringing, the city's obviously in need. I am the city’s guard captain.”

“I recall something you said to me, quite recently. It is the duty of the Templar to deal with matters of apostasy and demons. There is no _crime_ here.” She taunted. “That makes it _my_ matter, _Captain_.”

“Still, child,” Elthina descended the steps of the Chantry with easy grace. “It does the Chantry no good to alienate the guard.”

Meredith’s jaw tensed. “You are the last?” She asked and Elthina nodded. “Then I will join Cullen and the rest of my men. You lot, double back to the Gallows.”

“You’re going to _leave_?” Hawke asked. Meredith straightened, opening her mouth to speak.

“The Knight-Captain said we should stay, in case he tries something here,” a young recruit spoke up.

“ _I_ am your Knight-Commander,” Meredith hissed, “not Cullen. We have a sacred duty.” She explained, “We will not leave the people of Kirkwall unprotected from our Circle.”

Hawke’s wrist heated. She stepped behind Fenris to examine the message. _Be careful. Research. Meredith studying red._

Red? Did she have something on Aveline?

There was no time to decipher as Meredith's attention focused on her.

“I came to you for this because I wished to keep Chantry matters to the Templars, as you requested.” Hawke scowled. “ _This_ is Anders’ target, so I’m going to search for him here.” She turned to leave. “Do what you want.”

“We will stay to protect the Chantry.” Aveline nodded back at her guards.

“I do not fear for Kirkwall’s safety.” Meredith’s words stilled her. “Soon we will have the Divine’s forces to back us,” she smiled at Hawke like a jackal, “right, Champion?”

Of course she had talked to Cullen.

“I have not had the time to ask about your visit with Orsino.” She continued a little louder, but kept her tone conversational, as though only the two of them stood on the gray stone and dirt. “The Knight-Captain says you brought your daughter along?”

Hawke touched the hilt of her blade, and cursed at the careless action. She hoped the quirk of her lips hid any tenseness elsewhere. “I honestly didn’t think you and Orsino would deign to have your names on the same sheet of paper.

“So you lie to my Knight-Captain?” She tutted.

Hawke shrugged. “I learned fairly early that deception can be a key survival tactic in Kirkwall.”

“A trick you picked up from your apostate friend, perhaps? The same one we hunt tonight.” Hawke pressed her lips together. This was getting into dangerous territory. Her hand stayed at her hip. “Cullen asked me to look into your strange behavior, but I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, even this night.” She looked towards the docks. “I begin to wonder just how large your part in all this actually was.”

Hawke snorted indignantly. "I beg your pardon?"

"A refugee come to our city with an apostate sister. Gathering power and influence without any accounting? How can I trust that the mighty Champion of Kirkwall is not a worse threat to this city than your questionable allies?"

“Is our helping you not enough proof?” Fenris drew himself up.

“Proof of what? More lies? That you are more clever, even than Orsino? I should have seen this for what it was. This… _ruse_. A trick so he could escape from the Circle. As he allowed the opportunity for your sister perhaps?”

“Now is not the time to cast suspicion towards one another.” Elthina spoke quietly. “It is what our enemies would want of us.”

But despite the inaccuracy of Meredith’s statement, she was close enough to the truth that Hawke felt her heart beat double in her chest. She knew she need only distract her for so long.

With a near inscrutable nod to Fenris and Aveline, she went on the offensive.

"I think it’s a fair question.” Hawke whistled airily, gaze askance. “Though, if we're to start pointing fingers, I should ask how Bethany escaped in the first place. What with you Templars keeping such careful watch and all.”

Meredith reared back, as if slapped. A few eyes slanted towards her from beneath helmets.

“Too busy making the Harrowed mages Tranquil? Sending your own letter to the Divine? ‘Oh, pretty please allow me the privilege of the Rite of Annulment, Most Holy’?” Hawke pulled a face, mock whispering behind a hand, “And word on the street is the Merchant’s Guild isn’t happy with their cut of the Lyrium lately. Who would have an interest in _that_ , I wonder?”

Hawke only knew about the last because of Islen and had, at times, wondered how much control of the lyrium supply Elthina had seceded to Meredith in the intervening years. As the placid expression on the Grand Cleric’s face gave way to a tight worry, she no longer felt the need to ask. Meredith’s eyes remained ice-cold.

“I mean, it would explain why you missed this.” She motioned around them with a laugh. “After all, you were just as distracted as I was!”

“Falsehoods spill from your mouth.” Meredith spoke with a world-weariness that irritated Hawke to her core. "Yet they confirm my suspicions.You do not stand with the Templars.”

Meredith turned to her men and the sound of a sword being drawn set Hawke’s nerve ends alight.

She saw the remaining color drain from Elthina’s face, as she glanced between Aveline, eyes trained on the Templars and hand moving slowly towards her hip, and the Knight-Commander. Quicker than Hawke thought the older woman capable, she moved to place a hand on Meredith’s arm.

"Perhaps we should discuss this matter away from the Chantry." She implored. “Heated words will only rile those around us and distract from truer purpose.”

Meredith laughed in disbelief. “Surely you do not believe such baseless claims."

“I believe this has been a difficult year, for both of you.” Elthina seemed to choose her words carefully. “Stressful situations, such as these, may bring up thoughts better left relegated to the imagination.”

Meredith pushed her away with such force she fell to her backside. Her sword, whether by intention or not, was dangerously close to the other woman’s face. “This is not an imagined slight!”

Fenris stepped in front of the Grand Cleric with a stony expression, his own blade bright in the low light of morning.

“Commander!”

Cullen’s voice echoed through the near-silent courtyard and Hawke saw the grip on Meredith’s sword loosen slightly. The Knight-Captain led in a small band of Templars. Hawke recognized the one Meredith had whispered to earlier and realised their appearance was no coincidence.

The sight of Meredith and Fenris facing off, blades drawn, Elthina on the ground behind them, brought Cullen up short. Seeing another commander had also given the Templars pause. Hands, previously reaching for hilts, stilled on their path.

“What’s going on?” Cullen looked momentarily lost as Elthina struggled back to her feet. "Has the mage attacked here?"

“A clever trick to aid in his escape." Meredith was quick to respond. “The Champion has betrayed us.”

Hawke glanced down as her wrist grew warmer.

She barely registered Cullen’s, _Detain her._ , Elthina’s _No!_ as she tried to make better sense of the words on her bracelet:

_Ten Sovereigns I get his shoulder through the armor._

“Augh!”

Behind her an arrow stuck out at a strange angle from an approaching Templar’s back.

She laughed, feeling a little more jovial than the situation called for.

Cullen looked around, “What in the Maker’s name is going on?”

“Heard you were throwing a party without me.” Varric appeared from between two of the Kirkwall guard, resting Bianca over his shoulder. She saw a shadow move along the back of the guards that must have been Merrill.

“All of you!” Meredith pointed her sword at the recovering Hawke. "I want her dead!”

“Dead?” Cullen blinked, jaw clenched.

“Well,” Hawke grinned, “that’s more interesting.”

“Disregard that order, Knight-Captain.” Elthina spoke over her, the weathered skin of her face tightening over bone. “This is not what the order stands for. Meredith Stannard,"

Meredith’s eyes darted from Cullen, to Hawke, then finally to Elthina where they rested, half closed and brimming with loathing and disbelief. Hawke had never seen a truer expression of the phrase, _If looks could kill_.

“Let it be known that you have stepped beyond reason.” The two women shared a look that Hawke could not decipher, though she suspected it was one filled with a long history. Even the air seemed to hold itself still in anticipation for the Grand Cleric’s words.

“In the name of the Divine, I strip you of the title, Knight Commander.”

Battles are often more quick and bloody than people imagine, especially when big swords are drawn in very tight quarters. This was no different.

Meredith lunged, her face a familiar twist of rage. Fenris blocked her first thrusts easily, allowing Aveline the chance to dart forward and pull Elthina out of the way. The Templars and remaining Guard both stood stock-still, unsure of whether to interrupt, some unsure of what was happening at all. Hawke drew her blades. She did not need permission from Aveline or a Circle official.

Hawke was almost to them when it happened and she heard more than she saw. The hiss of pain, the dull thunk of metal lancing flesh. She leapt to catch the next blow.

An arrow sailed past her cheek, into the crook of Meredith's elbow. Her sword missed its intended mark, glancing Hawke's side, the tip sinking to the ground.

A scream tore from Meredith's throat as she wrested the arrow, haphazardly, from her arm. Hawke saw her opening, slamming a foot onto the sword and clasping it with both hands. She gripped tight, preparing to thrust the pommel up.

Then stared at the weapon, transfixed, as the familiar song of red lyrium filled her head.

_She’s studying the red._

Hawke was brought back to her own mind with a sickening jolt as she was thrust to the ground with Fenris, half-landing on her as they fell. Even more stomach-turning was the memory of Islen slowly reaching for the sword. Meredith’s sword was that damned red lyrium, somehow.

Her daughter had known and she couldn’t say a word.

“Enough, Meredith!” Cullen raised his hands, a note of desperation in his voice. “Step down! The Grand Cleric has relieved you of your command.”

From her place on the ground Hawke looked at the men and women surrounding her, a dull singing still in her ears. Despite any lingering confusion, or perhaps because of it, the weapons of the Kirkwall City Guard had been drawn. Hawke imagined this had happened as soon as Aveline had joined the fray, regardless of orders given. The Templars remained in a wary state, their gaze darting between the Knight-Commander and Knight-Captain and still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Were you so desperate for my title, sniveling boy? You’ve always been weak!” Meredith stepped forward between two large statues. Hawke used one to pull herself up, inspecting her wound. Shallow, she thought, sending a silent thanks to Varric. Fenris’ arm was far worse, but he was already tending to it, pulling a piece of linen tight with his teeth. His eyes bore into Meredith’s back as she rounded on the rest of the Templars.

“You’re all weak! Allowing the mages to control your minds. To turn you against me!” She accused, the long arc of her swings keeping Cullen at a safe distance for the moment. “But I don’t need any of you. I will protect this city myself.”

Hawke felt the bleeding of unstable magic in the air. Meredith’s sword glowed the unnatural red Hawke had come to associate with her time in the Deep Roads and the ground shook beneath her feet. Hawke heard the gasps of those around her, gaze turned up, before she understood what was happening.

Several statues, including the one Hawke stood against, broke away from their supports to turn their, well, _statuesque_ gaze on the crowd below and, with no other warning, began to swing their arms in a savage assault.

 _This_ seemed to stir a reaction from the gathered crowd. In-fighting with the Circle was something very few people wanted to be involved in. Attack by giant, moving statues was a situation one found themselves in, whether they liked it or not. The result was a localized chaos. A controlled frenzy.

“You men! Shields up, protect the sisters!” Aveline directed half of her men back towards the crowd. “The rest of you, to me!”

“Shit.” Varric groused, abandoning the guards to fight by Hawke’s side. “Should have known the action would follow you,”

“The sword, Varric,” she interrupted, having to shout over the din, “it’s the idol!”

“Kind of hard to miss, Hawke!” Varric shot up towards the approaching hand of one of the statues. He directed his next words to Cullen. “We need to get that _thing_ out of Meredith’s hands.”

Cullen nodded, nostrils flaring. “Templars! Attack the statues!”

“Oh, my,” she heard Merrill fret as she fell into place beside her, drawing the earth around herself. “we didn’t know about this did we?”

“Something always has to go wrong, Daisy.”

 _Couldn’t ask for a better distraction,_ Hawke jumped back, tapping her wrist twice and praying her message would be received.

After only a moment, she got her answer as, on the water, the Gallows exploded into flames.

_The Hanged Man_

Aveline stared at the map, arms crossed. “This _plan_ , if you can even call it that, is too risky.”

“That’s why I,” Hawke motioned between herself and Anders, “we called you here. If we knock our heads together hard enough, I figure something safe will fall out.”

Aveline placed both of her hands on the table, leaning over the table She remained silent for a long time. “Well we’re already here. What do you have so far?”

Hawke breathed a sigh of relief and moved forward to explain.

Hours later, some semblance of order had been formed and, despite her unhappiness with many of its lesser parts, the overall strategy was sound.

“You know this means you'll still be in hiding.” Hawke joined Anders by the fireplace.

“I think that goes without saying.” He laughed, a little carefree. “At least this way it's not forever. _If_ we pull this off.”

Hawke hadn’t considered that. She had convinced her friends to help her with something...frankly outrageous. The thought of actually _failing_ brought her up short.

“So how do I use this?” Anders asked, holding up the small box used to deliver Bethany’s phylactery from the Gallows.

“The way Bianca explained it was you just flip this here,” she pointed to the side. And anything inside is safe.” He examined it a little wonderingly. “Why are you keeping any at all? I’m surprised you don’t just want the whole place torched.”

“I dont want to take that from them.” He drew in a deep breath. “The mages can destroy them, if they wish. I want them to feel it crushed beneath their own heel.”

She pointed at him knowingly. “And he’s back.”

“Ten years from now, little girls like Islen won't have to be afraid for being born.” He watched her from the corner of his eye, nodding slowly. “And their mothers won't have to fear for them.”

“You know,” she smiled, “you were her first word.”

He pulled a face. “I still don't think nana technically counts.”

Hawke reached out to squeeze his hand, feeling a light pressure in return.

“It counts.”

* * *

The fighting did not stop.

The Guard and Templar together were a force, taking on the stone statues with renewed fervor, the distant shouts of the Chantry Sisters serving as their backdrop. Hawke worked to close the gap between Meredith and herself, Varric covering her blind spots and Merrill raining lighting from above.

“I hope that does something!” Varric called, embedding several arrows in a looming statue’s ribcage.

“Focus on the one controlling them!” Merrill shouted back.

Hawke’s attention was drawn to a gargantuan beast, larger than the other sculptures by far, that had slowly made it’s way up the gates. Aveline’s men were struggling to hold it back. “Varric, cover Aveline!” Varric turned, saw the threat and broke off from them without another word.

Hawke had been threatened by Meredith often enough that she knew, in her mind, how best to take her down. But, in all those imagined scenarios, she had never factored in something like red lyrium.

Fenris had thrown himself back into battle with the Knight-Commander, Seran attacking from the opposite side. With her attention kept to her front and back in equal measure, she left an entire side open. Hawke leapt, sinking a blade into Meredith’s shoulder. She felt a tug from behind as Merrill pulled her away roughly and tossed her to the ground. Hawke watched, in morbid fascination, as the mage sent a jolt of energy down the shaft of her dagger.

Meredith hissed savagely, a gloved arm connecting solidly with Merrill’s gut. Hawke scrambled to her feet and Meredith vaulted out of reach, pulling the blade from her flesh and tossing it aside.

Meredith’s skin _burned_ , her veins strained and glowing. She lifted her sword, bright red in preparation for what Hawke was sure would be a second spell. Hawke’s eyes met Fenris’ only a few feet away, and she knew neither would reach her in time. Meredith opened her mouth...

And screamed, high and startled, as Hawke’s blackened blade was pushed through her wrist from the other side, sending the pulsing lyrium sword skittering across the ground. Behind her, Cullen ripped the blade out, slamming a knee in her back and forcing her to the ground.

Meredith went white, pupils dilated and color slowly draining from her skin. Cullen pressed his own sword to the back of her neck, holding her against the stones. The city clock's sixth bell chimed and, as if it were some sort of sign, Meredith slumped, defeated.

The ground quaked a second time as the statues’ movements came to a jerky halt around them.

“No one touch that!” Hawke yelled, pointing at the sword and trying desperately to keep her balance.

But no one was paying attention to her, or the sword.

In the stillness that followed, the eyes of those gathered were drawn to the fire on the sea. Hawke let her own eyes roam through the crowd. Some were dead, crushed, beneath the weight of a statue’s might, others suffered less injurious fates. Hawke breathed a small sigh of relief as she caught sight of Juneth knelt beside Seran, examining a bruise on the other's side.

The wind was knocked out of her chest in a startled burst as first Varric, then Merrill crashed into her, enfolding her in a hug. Fenris smiled in a pleased way that showed mostly in his eyes, standing a little ways away, until Merrill pulled him in with them. He grunted with exaggerated displeasure, rubbing the back of Merrill’s head in a gruffly affectionate way.

Over their shoulders she saw Cullen. He, too, stared out at the water, a little detached. Hawke trained a careful eye on him until he turned away, back towards the crowd.

_Cullen? He was there. He saw what happened._

The others eventually loosened their hold on her and Hawke squeezed between them, walking towards the Templar with practised ease.

_Knight-Captain Cullen believes exactly what he sees, Champion. Not the aftermath, not the eyewitnesses._

“The night is not over! The damage may be less extensive than it appears.” He called out and the Templars, some still catching their breath, others staring at the Gallows, as lost as Cullen had been moments before, slowly formed rank. “Elthina, have the Sisters tend to the wounded here. My people will assess and contain the damage done at the Gallows.”

_Something to keep in mind._

“I’ll have my men and women control some of the panic at the Docks.” Aveline said. It wasn’t a question. “See that the fire doesn’t spread there.”

“Right,” Cullen nodded, a little lost, “much appreciated.” Aveline seemed to accept that and, shooting what Hawke considered a relieved smile, left to do her job.

“Thanks for the assist.” Cullen jumped as Hawke punched his shoulder lightly.

“I cannot say,” he cut himself off, his expression pinched.

She followed the path of his gaze to Meredith. Elthina had moved forward to quietly wrap the beaten woman’s wrist, expression inscrutable.

“I apologize for the Knight-Comman,” Cullen quieted, “Meredith’s behavior.”

“Before or after she had the sword?” When she chanced a look up, Cullen’s expression was quizzical. She sighed. “Never mind, _Knight-Commander_ Cullen. Go see to the Gallows.”

“It is the Order’s Sacred duty to protect the citizens and our charges. All those people...” His gaze threatened to return to the water.

“Cullen,” she said, more firm this time, “go see to the Gallows.” Then, a little quieter. “As you said, it may not be as bad as you suspect.”

“Right.” Cullen visibly swallowed, straightening before he fell into step with his men and disappeared in the crowd.

She sank to the ground and, after a few moments, felt Varric sit beside her, the comfortable weight of his palm on her lower back. She leaned over to claim a lazy kiss.

"I still have no affection for that man," Hawke said with a relieved smile, "but I'm glad he made it out okay."

"And just think of how happy he'll be when he finds out all those people he wanted to protect at the Gallows aren't dead at all." Merrill plopped down on Hawke's other side a happy smile plastered on her face.

"Sure, Daisy." Varric chuckled, a little placating, but mostly amused, before turning to Fenris. "Did you send word to Rivaini?"

"As soon as the statues stopped." Fenris answered, looking out at the Gallows. "It seems as though everything went smoothly."

Hawke laughed, cradling her stomach. "You call _this_ smooth?"

"Well," Fenris looked around, scratching the back of his neck, "it worked anyway."

"And it went basically to plan, that's pretty good for us!" Merrill chirped.

Hawke supposed she had a point. Perhaps that was why she felt such elation at the moment. Or maybe it was the adrenaline still coursing through her. Or it could be that she had not yet eaten and was mistaking dizziness for extreme happiness.

"What do you want to do with _that_?" Fenris motioned to the ground ahead of them.

They all followed the direction of his hand to stare at the sword, now surrounded by several upright Templar shields.

Hawke and Varric shared a worried look, both knowing they would have to deal with it and neither wanting to. "Let's worry about that after breakfast." Varric finally settled the matter with an easy wave of his hand. "Why don't you go get that arm looked at properly?"

He suddenly looked a little distant and Hawke knew, as she often did, exactly what he was thinking. He was going to recommend Fenris let Anders have a look at his wound. Merrill, too, wiped at her eyes.

"She won't be in Lowtown tonight." She said, quietly and then hissed and tugged at the fabric of her sleeve. Giggling a little she showed them the message, in Isabela’s golden, looping scrawl.

_ss o it Kitten_

"That's it?" Varric tilted his head.

"I think she's getting out of range." Merrill smiled. "That's good."

Fenris was looking at his own wrist with a slight curve at the corner of his lips, eyebrow raised. She elbowed Varric to point it out, but they both kept quiet. After a few moments, she winced at the heat of her own bracelet.

"We keep using these, you're going to _have_ to fix that." She shook out her arm.

"Sorry." Merrill held her face, blushing a little.

Hawke bent her head, smiling softly.

Inscribed in the light blue of Anders’ signature was, _Meet again soon._

* * *

A week later, a dedicated clean up crew comprised of civilians worked tirelessly to make it seem as though nothing had happened at the Chantry. One had to only look into a passing Sister’s face, dour and confused, to see where the true turmoil lay. What Sisters’ remained to help, in any case. Many huddled inside, packing in preparation for journeys to other cloisters.

Hawke found Elthina on a balcony, overlooking the back garden.

"The shepherd minding her fields." She commented sardonically.

Elthina chuckled humorlessly. “Meredith is in chains, my wards are gone. I fear I have tended my flock poorly."

“Don’t fret, Mother, I’m sure you’ll have more soon.” Hawke said flatly.

“This, I doubt.” She responded. “We have been declared unfit to maintain a Circle by the Divine. When last we spoke, they were considering the possibility of an Exalted March. As you can see that may be,” she sighed, eyebrows raised, “unnecessary now. I can’t say I’m terribly happy about the results, but the alternative may have been worse.”

“Have you been to seen Meredith?”

Elthina tensed. “It is too painful to bear.”

According to Aveline, Meredith was on a constant watch by both guard and Templar, both groups more capable of working together after the events of the week prior, yet neither fully trusting the other alone with the woman.

“What will happen to her?”

“If she were a mage, I would suggest leniency. To make her Tranquil.” Hawke felt her expression twist into something unpleasant. “As it is, she will be sent to Val Royeaux for evaluation and punishment.” Elthina paused, weighing her next words. “That...sword.”

“An artifact from the Deep Roads.” Hawke explained in a clipped tone. “It will be kept here, for study. Varric has better connections and will report his findings to the Chantry.” Hawke shrugged. "You can choose to think that’s what caused her to act that way, if it helps you sleep at night.”

They were silent for a while. “Meredith may have been misled in many things,” Elthina looked at her from the corner of her eye, “but the mages _did_ escape whilst our attention was drawn elsewhere.” She looked back to the garden. “In this, she was correct.”

“And I was right about the explosion.” Hawke commented. “Shame I got the location wrong but that may have been his plan.”

“How deeply should I look into this, Champion?”

Hawke glanced back at the Chantry, large and now a little less imposing. “How much do you want the Divine to know about what’s been going on here?”

Elthina’s expression hardened.

“She’s probably pretty unhappy with you,” Hawke continued, “it won’t look good if I tell… _everything_ I think about our Chantry.”

“And what _do_ you think, Champion?”

“That's you people's mistake. You always have to _ask_.” Hawke smiled without mirth. “Meredith overthrew Viscount Threnhold, but it was you who arrested him, you who held the power in Kirkwall for years,” she leaned on her elbows, examining the garden below, “until the Blight. People were afraid. They wanted power they could see. The guard was useless,” she sent a mental apology to Aveline for that, “so they turned to the Templars.”

“You mistake my own, or perhaps the Chantry’s intentions.” Elthina straightened. “We are here to bring the people peace, not to rule.”

“Still,” Hawke commented absently, “it must have been hard letting them take that much control. I mean, the people are supposed to trust _you_ , not the lady with the lyrium sword, right?”

“The people do not,” colour rose in the Cleric’s cheeks, “did not trust her.”

"You just asked me what I thought." Hawke shrugged. “I think you were just as scared as Meredith. You were just...trickier about it.”

Hawke let the silence stretch. Finally, Elthina sighed.

“I was fine, as long as the people of Kirkwall were safe.” She said. “But Meredith was out of control. She asked for more and more lyrium, the Guild was upset. I didn’t realise how far it had gotten until she refused to allow me access to Orsino.” She looked genuinely angry. “My own First Enchanter. In _my_ Circle. For my _safety_ , she claimed.”

“And then you were arrested.” Hawke crossed her arms. “Quite the opportunity for a powder keg like our Meredith to explode. The Maker moves in _mysterious_ ways.”

“Enough of this.” Elthina narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

Hawke let Elthina hang there a moment, all taut lines and angrier than she had ever allowed herself to seem. She may have aged more in the last week than in all the years Hawke had known her.

“Well, the Guild’s happy. I can’t say I'm _unhappy_.” She placed a hand on Elthina’s shoulder with perhaps a little too much force. “How unhappy are you?”

The tenseness left Elthina’s muscles, little by little, and Hawke removed her hand. The Grand Cleric’s attention turned to the burnt husk of the Gallows. Smoke still rose from the island, and she could make out specks, Templars and volunteers. They would have to move on soon, if what Elthina said held true, but for now they picked through the rubble. For evidence, lost things, she didn’t know.

“It is the Maker’s will.” Elthina eventually answered, a smile crinkling her face.

Hawke lifted a brow. “Meaning?”

“I am content by the Maker’s side. Whether that is inside a Circle or with the people.”

“I can think of a few folks in the Alienage who could use _the Maker’s_ help.”

Elthina sighed. “I’m sure you have a list, Champion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I obviously don’t recommend trying any of the crazy things the Kirkwall crew does, BUT grabbing Meredith’s blade, as Hawke does, and attempting to use the guard or pommel to attack, is an actual technique of Half-Swording called Mordschlag/murder stroke (more information found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwuQPfvSSlo) Now, obviously the idea is to use your _own_ sword but you get the jist. I thought it was pretty neat! Stay tuned for the epilogue!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The epilogue!
> 
> Thank you for all the people who’ve helped with this. kazzashepard for letting me bounce ideas, betaing, and being generally awesome. EvD, for the invaluable, highly detailed, advice about where babies come from and how they work after. damalur, once again, for the inspiration for this fic and dragging me into this fandom.
> 
> And everyone who read, subscribed, commented, left kudos, bookmarked--the support for this has been lovely and I thank you so very much.

_9:37 Dragon, Harvestmere_

Leliana surveyed the Kirkwall Chantry with keen interest.

Two months after the disastrous events here, Meredith still awaiting a sentence, and this place seemed as if untouched.

“I told our Champion there was no need for an Exalted March.” Leliana turned to look at the approaching Grand Cleric. “I hope I was not lying to her.”

“Do you not think it so?” Leliana said with a practised smile.

“I would not.” Elthina seemed to be keeping a safe distance between them. “So imagine my surprise to see the Divine’s Left Hand on my street.”

“This is not _your_ street, Elthina.” Leliana was quick to correct. “It is the Maker’s and the people’s. You would do well to remember that.”

To her surprise, Elthina did not balk, merely slumped where she stood. “I fear I will have many reminders in days to come.”

“You should hold the experience to heart. It is not often opportunity presents to find oneself humbled.”

Elthina gave her a baleful look.

“The Divine sees no need for an Exalted March.” Leliana assured her. “You may be unfit to protect this city, but Kirkwall has proven itself resourceful.”

“I suppose that is some measure of relief.” Elthina harrumphed.

“Good.” She nodded, her placid smile dropping. “Now, where can I find Knight-Commander Cullen?”

* * *

_Sister,_

_I heard there was a mess your way, no surprise. Quite coincidentally, I’m sure, a slew of refugees have shown up at the Orlais Circle from Ferelden. All right, so everyone KNOWS they’re from Kirkwall, but funnily enough no one is saying anything. They all seem to think it’s very exciting. Madame de Fer will take care of them. It’s not for me, though._

_I helped Bianca make a truly marvelous device. A rotating circular platform with little animals that people may sit on to ride. If she’ll let us, I’m sure Sandal and I can make the animals move, but Bianca’s not overly fond of magic mixing with her metals. Whether she allows it or not, you must visit Orlais to see it as soon as you’re able as there is a fearsome pirate at my door saying she knows you._

Hawke laughed out loud, losing her place on the page for a moment.

 _Please tell me how my niece is. Has she learned my name yet? How does she manage with you and Varric as parents? How is he? How is everyone? Write to me! Soon! Now! Write!_  
_Love,  
Bethany_

Hawke obeyed, pulling out a fresh page and starting at the top.

 _Bethany,_  
_You’re picking up a strange way of writing living with those fancy Madames. Tell the rogue infesting your home to be careful and give her the letters I’ve attached._  
_Islen is well, if a little lonelier than she understands. Orana has started a music school and is teaching her ‘notes’. I, foolishly, offered my own home out of the great kindness of my heart. If you manage a time travelling spell, go back and tell me what a terrible idea that was, please. I thought lute lessons with three were bad._  
_Merrill has made several journeys, from Ostwick to Kirkwall, working with the Alienages, and she’s taken over the Ferelden refugee clinic here. Fenris goes with her, most of the time. Other days he spends with us. Between you and me I think he’s trying to get out of the house more. Maybe preparing for a longer trip? Don’t tell Isabela I said that._  
_And Aveline is ecstatic to report that many of the younger Templars left the Order only to be drawn into her welcoming bosom._  
_I’m certain she used those exact words._  
_And Varric is_

“Charming, breathtaking, resplendent,” a voice filled in from her shoulder. She turned to give Varric a flat stare.

_the same._

She finished her sentence with an exaggerated flourish. Varric read the words and his lip jutted out. Islen, dangling over his shoulders, saw the action and attempted to recreate it with her own mouth.

“No sister wants to hear those sort of thoughts.” She gave them an indulgent look, pushing both Varric and Islen’s pouts in with her fingers. Islen grabbed at her mother’s hand while Varric swatted away the offending digit with a laugh.

“What thoughts are those?” He raised a suggestive brow.

“Nug shit.” Islen said, attempting to tug Hawke closer by her pointer finger.

Hawke gave a short laugh. “ _That one_ I know she learned from you.”

“I'm just glad she can pronounce it now.” Varric reached behind him to swing Islen between them. Hawke bent her head, letting her lips rest against the top of Islen’s head in an imitation of a kiss. She pulled away when something cold touched her chest. There was a chain around Islen’s neck and, at the end, a gold ring.

“Did you move her ring to a chain?” She tugged at the offending item, an awkward movement with the other two tucked in so close.

“Here,” Varric set Islen down and helped the girl remove the necklace. He pulled the ring from the chain and placed it into Hawke’s hand.

She examined the bauble she now held. It was a simple gold band, that played a neat trick in the light. Emblazoned on one half was the Amell insignia and, etched upon the other, was what she now recognized as the Tethras heraldry. Hawke stared at the ring in stunned silence.

“So you don’t have to wear that clunky thing around your neck anymore.” He motioned to his sigil ring and she clasped it a little protectively. She had grown quite fond of the bulky trinket.

“Where were you hiding this?” She asked when she finally found her voice.

“Your coffer.” He admitted with a wry smirk. “I had them commissioned before you asked me to adopt Islen but you know how it is,” he lifted a shoulder, “I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“That’s sneaky.” She sniffed, feeling a sting at the corners of her eyes. “Youre so…”

 _Charming, breathtaking, resplendent._ She hid her face. _The same as always._

“Sneaky.”

“Are you _crying_?” Varric barked out a laugh.

“Of course I’m crying!” She wiped at her face. “You devious,”

He leaned that little bit forward to kiss the words from her mouth. “I know, I’m terrible.” He smiled as he drew back. “So, yes?”

She laughed, remembering a time the same question had left her lips. “I think the answer to that is _fairly_ obvious.”

Islen pushed her arms between them, determinedly attempting to climb the leg of Hawke’s trousers. Hawke placed a hand on Varric’s shoulder when he bent to help her and they watched, a little amused but mostly impressed, as the toddler struggled up into Hawke’s lap.

“Woah.” Islen smiled broadly, shaking her head.

“Tough day?” Varric asked, fighting back a laugh. Hawke wrapped her arms around Islen, tickling her sides until she reached for Varric with a high-pitched giggle for help. “Come on, let’s get a snack.”

Islen ran ahead to the kitchen at the mention of the word, her chants of ‘cheese’ heard long after she had disappeared around the corner.

“You follow her,” Hawke laughed, “let me finish this letter.”

“Can do, sweetheart.” He saluted as she turned back to the desk, her face heating. “Oh yeah, celebratory drinks at the Hanged Man tonight, I already invited everyone!” She heard him call.

“What made you think there would be something to celebrate?” Hawke teased.

“Hawke,” he said her name, tone serious enough to make her turn, “when isn’t there with you?”

She turned back to the table with a smile so big her cheeks ached. “Go get your daughter some cheese.”

                                                                  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s all, folks! Thank you for reading!


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